


Patron Saint of Silent Restraint

by vivalataire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bahorel - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Pining, Pining Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Sexual Tension, and enjolras is a fucking idiot, background Courferre, background bahorel/feuilly - Freeform, buckets of sexual tension, butt tons of sexual tension, in which bahorel is fucking scary, mentions of depression, u could say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivalataire/pseuds/vivalataire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If R hadn’t been reeling from the aftershocks of meeting Apollo incarnate, he might’ve decked Courfeyrac in the nose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like Scripture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmettcadrian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmettcadrian/gifts).



> Title is from Weights & Measures by Dry the River. Many thanks to my trash slinging slashers- Amelia (emmettcadrian) and Merr. Thanks for letting me scream via group chat at all hours of the day. and night.
> 
> my URL is vivalar.tumblr.com if you want to come scream at me

It was too fucking early. Too early for the loud whir of the espresso machine, too early to be out of bed and downtown, and _especially_ too early for Courfeyrac’s loud fucking voice.

“Goodmorning, R!” Courfeyrac chimed as Grantaire entered the cafe from the worker’s entrance.

  
“No, Courf. It’s not a good morning.” Was the whine of response from R, tying on his stained barista’s apron before taking a seat on the floor behind the counter. A few moments later, a large black coffee was put into his hand and- he _really_ ought to thank Courfeyrac one of these days for just knowing him so _well_.

“What happened to you last night?” His coworker asked, voice softening. He was accustomed to R’s morning behaviors- but this seemed to be quite the hangover.

“Bahorel happened to me.” Grantaire responded, in lieu of an explanation. But really, that was all the explanation Courf really needed. “The fucker doesn’t know when to call it a night. And his enthusiasm is so _awfully infectious_.” He bemoaned, taking a large gulp of his piping hot coffee, appreciating the burn- anything to wake him up.

“Well shit, babe. We’ve all been there.” Courfeyrac sympathized, before the door chimed open with the first customers of the morning. With a heavy sigh, R heaved himself off the floor of the coffee shop, setting aside his own coffee before taking the orders of two college students that looked like they had a worse night than even him.

 

* * *

 

The Corinthe was a privately owned, fair trade coffee shop. R honestly had no idea how he had swung a job- just happened to be at the right place at the right time, per usual. It was a cozy atmosphere, the walls a dark red and the only lights were mismatched lamps across the room, candles flickering in the windows. It was December, closing in on the holidays quite fast- and Grantaire had been trying to avoid the thought of having to celebrate them. The snow outside was already on the ground, the streets slushy, grey and dirty in harsh opposition against the white sidewalks. R hated snow- hated the cold.

He continued through the day, fighting off his headache with several Advil Joly had been kind enough to drop off, and a quick espresso shot drinking game with Courfeyrac when there was a lull in customer traffic. And the kid would not _shut up_  about his new roommates.

“Grantaire, they’re just so beautiful. I can’t let it go.” Courfeyrac whined for the millionth time that day. “Ferre is literally the most _gorgeous_ man I have ever seen. I don’t understand how I got this lucky. I’m blessed with such wonderful, hot friends.”

"Are we even friends, then? I’m not wonderful and I’m especially not hot. I suppose that gives me a reason to not be your friend. Which means I’m officially not formally required to listen to your whining.” Grantaire teased, cleaning off the counter before moving to untie his apron. “I’m going on break.” He stated abruptly, already pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and heading towards the back door.

“Oh! Do you think you could pick me up-”

“Nope! Not hot, not wonderful- not your friend.” The response of effervescent laughter was abruptly cut off by the door shutting behind him. Grantaire sighed, removing his lighter from the pocket of his too-thin hoodie and flicking the end, lighting his cigarette with practiced ease.

The snow was refusing to melt, apparently; the afternoon sun hidden by a long, vast stretch of grey sky- not a spot of blue to be seen. These were the days Grantaire hated. Give him thunderous rain, give him unrelenting sunshine- but he hated these days. The inbetween days- where the world seemed to still, snow on the ground muffling the sounds of traffic and voices, the cold biting his skin beneath the too-thin sweatshirt. He had managed to mentally talk himself into relatively bad spirits by the time the butt of his cigarette was being crushed into the snow, and he was returning to the warmth of the cafe. He tied his apron back on, muttering about the inhumanity that came with 10 minute breaks, and looked up to find Courfeyrac _not_ behind the counter.

Instead, he happened to be deep in conversation with a very beautiful man at a table near a window. R recognized him from lengthy descriptions; the tall man’s caramel skin, broad form and glasses giving him away. _Well fuck_. Courf was right about at least one of his roommates. He watched the two talk, noticing the way the taller man’s cheeks flushed every time Courfeyrac reached out a hand for physical contact. _Completely unnecessary physical contact._

  
What Grantaire was not prepared for, was for another man to join them.

R’s breath caught in his throat, mouth drying. The whole cafe faded from his mind, suddenly unable to hear or see anything aside from this god that had descended right here, in the _fucking Corinthe_. His hands twitched, longing for a sketchbook or camera. Anything to capture this moment- but he couldn’t drag his eyes away. The artist could feel his face heat, pulse pounding in his ears has he tried to swallow. Azure eyes met his own, and Grantaire knew he shouldn’t be staring- but god _damn_ , he didn’t think he could ever stop.

The man stood a head taller than Grantaire, with shoulders and a frame twice as broad as his own. The artist longed to know what was under the button down white shirt and maroon blazer- not that he’d ever admit it. The man- the _angel-_ had beautifully tanned skin and cheekbones that, holy god, he would probably slice his hand open if he dared touch them. His eyebrows looked perfectly sculpted, and his golden hair was tied into a ponytail- a halo around the head of a saint. A saint that seemed to be much closer to Grantaire than he was a moment ago.

“Hi.” Grantaire saw more than heard, watching the beautiful pink lips curl around the word like it was poetry. And _Jesus fucking Christ- that voice._ His eyes trailed up from that sinful mouth, over the smooth cheeks, which were dusted pink, and up to meet those impossibly blue eyes, surrounded by thick eyelashes and laugh lines. “Do you think I could order something?” The angel asked, his impossibly melodic voice falling on otherwise distracted ears.

Grantaire managed to snap mostly out of his reverie.

“I-I’m sorry, what?” He asked dumbly, voice cracking. His fucking face must’ve been bright red, but the blond angel’s delicate lips turned up at the corners into what must’ve been the most beautiful smile R had ever seen. Oh Jesus shit, he was _fucked_. “Yeah- sorry. What can I get you?” He said quickly, attempting to revert back into a functioning human being.

  
The blond’s cheeks flushed before answering, for apparent reasons.

“Can I have a large hot coffee- half caf, soy, two pumps of caramel and whipped cream?” He asked, his deliciously tempting tongue peeking out between his lips to nervously swipe the length of them. Grantaire could have moaned out loud- but he was a better man than that. Hopefully.

When he fully registered what the blond had said, R couldn’t help but smile wickedly, an unabashed grin stretching across his face. “Not what I expected.” He said, voice shaky, but at least he was done with the stuttering. “But I can definitely do that for you.” The _I would do anything for you_ went unsaid, though Grantaire was sure the pathetic look on his stricken face said it anyway.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment as the man shrouded in gold tried to give him money, and honestly, he was not about to let Apollo Himself pay for a fucking coffee.

“It’s on the house, don’t worry about it.” Grantaire managed, shaking his head. The blond’s eyes narrowed before answering, his voice sharp.

“No, I insist. You work, I pay. That’s how capitalism works.” He practically spat. “And as much as I really despise that sentiment, if I don’t pay, you work for nothing. And honestly, that sentiment is much worse.” He held the money out again, and R still shook his head. He couldn’t make himself reach out and take it.

“On the house.” He repeated, a sparkle of something like a challenge in his green eyes. He honestly would walk around the corner of this counter and fall on his fucking knees in front of the man; and at that thought, R gulped and busied his shaking hands with the order. He didn’t fail to notice the angel take a few extra bills out of a leather wallet, dropping them into the tip jar, though. The blond walked to the end of the counter and watched Grantaire mix the drink.

  
“Can I get a name for the order?” He asked, voice unsteady. He didn’t need a name, only wanted one. And of course the blond knew this, knew he was the only one ordering at the moment. Yet he smiled, and told R anyway.

“Enjolras.” He stated, lips and tongue curving around the name like it was scripture.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire repeated, the name a revered whisper in his mouth. It felt melodic, the syllables falling in all the right places. He murmured it like a prayer, eyes down on his hands.

  
He failed to notice the way the blond- Enjolras’ cheeks flushed at the whispered name, and the way his eyes raked the barista’s body; Everything from the mess of curls on his head, to the watercolor tattoos covering his arms, where his jacket sleeves were pushed up.

  
Grantaire took a moment to write the name out on the cup, using the Sharpie to curve the letters into calligraphy as carefully as he could. A name like that deserved to be written with a limited edition golden Montegrappa fountain pen, in calligraphy only the most talented artists could only dream of achieving. Unfortunately, a mediocre artist holding a permanent marker would have to do. He finished the order, capping the cup and taking it over to Enjolras. He saw the bright, quizzical eyes scan over his torso for a moment, before bouncing up to meet his own eyes once again.

“Thank you, R.” He spoke, a small smile toying at his beautiful lips. Grantaire’s brain short-circuited for a moment before remembering he was wearing a name tag. A _fucking name tag_. Right.

“Anytime.” The artist said without thinking, breath catching as their hands brushed while he handed over the coffee. A brush of fingertips already had his face flushed, stomach breaking out into those _damn butterflies_ that Courfeyrac was always going on about. Enjolras gave a smile before turning on a well-designed heel, back to join his friends. The whole interaction hadn’t lasted more than five minutes, but it seemed like an eternity.

He let his eyes fall shut, inwardly groaning and externally sighing. He was going to need Eponine’s company tonight. A thin arm swung tightly around his neck, and he yelped in surprise.

  
“Fucking hell, Courf.” Grantaire swore, ducking out from under the embrace.

“I see you met my new roommate.” The little fucker grinned cheekily, and if R hadn’t been reeling from the aftershocks of meeting _Apollo incarnate_ , he might’ve decked him in the nose. “Let me tell you- Ferre and I had a blast watching that interaction, by the way.”

Grantaire glowered at the younger man before rolling his eyes and turning away. “Whatever.” He muttered, swallowing thickly. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the over-excessive chest touches and eyelash batting.” R countered, regaining control over his motor functions.

  
“Oh, Grantaire. That was nothing compared to the way your face looked when he c-” He was cut off by a punch in the shoulder from the artist, who also happened to kickbox in his spare time.

“One word of this to Bahorel and I will make your life a _personal fucking hell_.” He threatened, attempting to return to his work. Though it was difficult, having to look up every few moments to check in on Enjolras.

Yeah, he was _fucked._


	2. Beasts of Blame by Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t see how that could help. The people will remain willfully ignorant, as they always have. It sounds useless to me.”
> 
> “Useless? Like your presence here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY FRIENDS THIS CHAPTER IS VERY MUCH NOT A HAPPY COFFEESHOP AU. I will bring it full circle back to a coffeeshop AU in the next chapters i promise but i don't even think this chapter says coffee once tbh
> 
> Bonus Bahorel
> 
> always, a huge thanks to my trash slinging slashers and Azura for the help/support/ideas u guys (courfey)rock
> 
> chapter title is from Weights and Measures (ACOUSTIC) by Dry the River. DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND LISTEN TO IT ON REPEAT WHILE YOU READ THIS. JUST DO IT.  
> Basically their whole acoustic album of Shallow Bed is what I listen to while writing this.
> 
> welcome to the pain train toot toot

_Bob, weave, hook to the right peck. Bob, weave, cross counter. Bob, weave- azure eyes gazing into- “Fuck!”_ Grantaire swore as he lost his concentration and suffered from a swift jab to the abdomen from Bahorel’s boxing glove.

“R, my man, you can’t lose focus like that.” Bahorel reprimanded, though the look in his eyes was soft.

“I know- fuck, I know. I just can’t get him out of my god _damned_ head.” He moaned, violently tearing the gloves off his shaking fingers and throwing them on the springed floor of the small ring they were in. He leaned against the ropes, catching his breath. Bahorel followed suit, taking off his gloves and leaning close to Grantaire. Their chests were heaving with exertion, skin slick with sweat. They were in their element- and honestly, boxing was a wonderful way for R to work out stress, usually. But it wasn’t doing much to take his mind off of things; not today, at least.

“What’s his name, anyway? You keep groaning about a Magical Golden God but you haven’t even mentioned his name...” Bahorel muttered through his panting, elbowing R in his already bruising ribs, slightly rougher than he would’ve liked. To be completely honest, R hadn’t mentioned his name because it felt like a secret. It felt like a softly spoken prayer, only to be whispered into the quiet dark of his apartment, hands wandering. _Fuck._

“Enjolras.” R sighed, expression softening. “Enjolras is his name.” He said, a small smile gracing his lips as he thought back to their interaction. The way Enjolras’ beautiful lips curled around his own monicker, impossibly blue eyes trailing up to meet his own. The image he couldn’t rid his mind of, the one that he thought of late into the night in the soft light of his own bedroom was different, though. It was the image of absolute focus on Enjolras’ perfectly sculpted face, eyes buried into a textbook as he drank the coffee in his hand. It was the furrowed brow, cheeks sucked in, his terribly tempting tongue sticking out ever-so-slightly against his pink lips.

Suddenly, and very loudly, Bahorel was laughing his clamorous, booming laugh that was such a large part of his identity. It didn’t stop as it usually did, but continued on for what felt like minutes. The man’s hair was falling out of his bun, face turning pink under his short beard as he practically howled with laughter. “What’s so fuckin’ funny?” R asked, mood soured.

“The man you’ve been wanting to bend you over for the last week- is _Enjolras?!”_ Bahorel practically shrieked, not even attempting to lower his volume when R reached a hand to cover his mouth.

“ _Shut up, Bahorel.”_ Grantaire admonished tersely. “Wait- so you know him, too?!” He could have throttled him with frustration. “I swear- first Courf, and then Eponine, and now you? Am I the _only_ person that is just now meeting him?” Finally Bahorel seemed to notice his best friend’s exasperation, and sobered his laughing.

“Honestly? Yeah, pretty much.” He admitted, shrugging. “You know those meetings we’re always trying to get you to come to?”

“You mean the student activist meetings?” Grantaire snorted, rolling his eyes. He’d been offered descriptions of them, and he was definitely not interested.

“Yeah. Enjolras is the leader of those.” Bahorel explained, a smirk on his lips. “He’s the founder, along with Combeferre and Courf. He leads a meeting every Tuesday and Thursday.” Bahorel explained, reaching down at his feet to take a quick swig of water. Grantaire was stunned, jaw falling slightly ajar.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” He said softly, a hysterical chuckle breaking free from his chest.  He could’ve met Enjolras months ago, but because he had been so opposed to the idea of the meetings, he hadn’t. R felt like his luck could have rivaled even Bossuet’s in that moment. He sunk to a seating position against the ropes, pulling his knees to his chest.

“‘Taire, just come to a meeting. What’s the worst that could happen?” Bahorel asked, standing in front of the artist as he used a small towel to wipe the sweat from his own forehead. “If anything, you’ll get to sit at a table and watch Enj rant for ten years.” He huffed a laugh at the pained groan that emitted from Grantaire, voice muffled by his tattooed arms. “Your left hook needs work, as well as your footwork when you’re trying to check hook, okay?” Bahorel advised, a fond eye-roll thrown in for good measure. “Though I’m sure it was only your concentration that was compromised, not your skill. And, as your boxing coach, and honorary best friend, your presence is required at that meeting. To relieve your boxing issues, and god-awful sexual frustration. Honestly, my man, it’s just depressing.” He said, nudging R with his toe affectionately. “I have to get back to Feuilly, though. But I’m sure I’ll see you. Seven o’clock.”

Grantaire only groaned in response. He knew he would go- didn’t think he could stop himself. But he’d be damned if he wasn’t dreading the sheer anticipation- the anxiety that came with waiting a whole twenty four hours before seeing the muse of his dreams- the inspiration for the only sketches that his fingers could pull forth.

“See you tomorrow.” Bahorel admonished fondly, reaching down to heavily clap the artist’s shoulder. R winced in response, muttering something incoherent into his arms. After a moment of silence following the elder man’s sudden absence, R propped his chin up on his arms, heaving a longing sigh. He watched out the front windows of the gym for a few moments, eyes catching sight of blond hair on the sidewalk outside. For a moment, he hoped, heart lurching into his throat. But no, it was someone jogging- a girl, who happened to have nice blond curls. But not quite nice enough- the ringlets weren’t the same, the highlights all wrong. He tried to not feel disappointed.

_Yep, still fucked._

* * *

 

**{6:30pm}**

 

The watch pulled him out of his reverie, soft beeping a mockery in his inebriated confusion. It’s the night of the meeting, and of course Grantaire happened to have a Bad Day. It started small, waking up with an inevitable hangover from the previous night. Bahorel, of course, was to blame for that. But he supposed he didn’t necessarily _need_ those two extra glasses of whiskey when he got back to the apartment.

His headache wouldn’t shake, even though he’d slept until one in the afternoon. He tried to draw, he honestly _tried._ He had a commission to work on, something that may actually earn him a decent amount of money, and he couldn’t even focus on that. The colours were all wrong- paint falling in muted golds and soft blues.

His attention was more than compromised. By the end of the hour, he had paper strewn about the room, and another glass of whiskey resting against the corner of his easel. Eventually, he gave in to what his hands were urging him to paint, and released a heavy sigh as he let his fingers move, seeming to command themselves.

Grantaire lost hours there, in his own mind. His glass abandoned for the cold bottle itself, and his mind was adrift in the memory of Apollo, standing before him as the whole world fell away. His alarm went off eventually, and that shook him out of the intensity of his trance, for the most part.

R tried to focus, but anger was brimming underneath the surface. It had been a week since their first interaction, and he hadn’t seen him since. There was only so much a memory could hold, and he couldn’t quite get the impossible blue of Enjolras’ eyes right. It seemed impossible to try and paint something that Michelangelo or Da Vinci would even struggle to capture. At this point, R even doubted if a photograph could express it. He let out a frustrated grunt, breaking the silence of his apartment as he tore the page off of his easel, watching as the paint ran, blues and yellows mixing with each other to form a bright, horrid green. It was all wrong. _Wrong, wrong wrong._

It took him a moment to recollect himself, panting not with physical exertion, but emotional. Grantaire remembered why his alarm was going off, and swore. He caught sight of himself in the reflection of the scratched glass of his bookcase, taking note of his appearance.

R was shirtless, clad only in boxers, his ribs and collarbones jutting out. He had never appreciated his appearance, and no one else had either- not enough to stay longer than a night, at least. His arms were awkwardly large juxtaposed to his too-skinny frame, pale skin sticking out against the coarse dark hair scattered across the front of him. It seemed he had gotten as much paint on himself as he had on the canvas, his torso and chest swiped with cobalt paint, there was a fingerprint of red amongst it all, with forest green streaks on his neck, where he had been rubbing away the stiffness in his joints.

 

**{6:45}**

 

His watch still mocked him, as he realized that there were fifteen minutes to the start of the meeting. It took ten minutes to get there, and he really needed to shower. His head was fuzzy, dizzy from the alcohol and lack of food. R walked to the small kitchenette of his one-roomed flat, holding a dirty glass under his rickety faucet and forced himself to drink a glass of water. He was the epitome of health! When’s the last time Bahorel drank a glass of water? _Ha._ Eponine would be proud of him. At the thoughts bubbling up in his intoxicated mind, he snorted into the silence of his apartment, before the lack of response reminded him that Eponine was not here, and Bahorel didn’t give a shit about his water drinking habits.

Setting the glass down, he wandered into the bathroom, starting the shower. He waited until steam began to rise before removing his boxers and stepping under the water. His vision was swaying, and he smartly chose to sit before he could inevitably bash his head against the cracked porcelain of his shower. _Which has happened before._ To Bossuet, not him. Yet.

The water burned against his skin, hopefully snapping some sense of feeling into him, the paint mixing to form that awful brown color swirling around the drain. He lost any and all sense of time, disassociation getting the best of him. And when the water ran cold, he reached forward, pressing the nozzle closed.

 

**{7:17}**

 

 _“Fuck.”_ Grantaire murmured, drying himself off as fast as his lethargic limbs could manage. He stumbled into the main room, grabbing the least filthy pair of jeans he could find, which were, of course, stained with paint. He grabbed a dark green shirt, the long sleeves that fell over his fingers were worn thin with use. He grabbed a woolen flannel and threw a beanie over his wet hair before hobbling out the door.

 

* * *

 

The Musain was a local bar that Grantaire was more than familiar with, as he and Bahorel frequented it often. But never on a Tuesday or Thursday, which makes sense, now that he thinks about it. The anxiety clinging to his chest and skin made his hands shake, and instead, R attempted to focus on the anger and frustration bubbling beneath his skin. It was anger directed at himself, for being late, for wasting paint and art supplies all day; for losing a day to his mind once again. It put him in a sour mood.

Grantaire stood in front of the door to the bar, heart in his throat. After trying to give himself a pep talk, which really was more along the lines of _‘Come on, R. Don’t be a fucking coward.’,_ He pushed the heavy door open, and found himself with eleven pairs of eyes turning to face him. Some surprised, a few pleased at his presence, and one set full of irritation. It was the latter his mind focused on, and suddenly his feet were glued to the floor in the doorway, face ashen.

Enjolras was as stunning as he remembered- more beautiful, in fact. The irate gaze creating an effect that reminded Grantaire of an avenging angel, full of a wrath that was as beautiful as it was frightening. That single moment of absolute focus on Grantaire made his cheeks flush, wanting those sapphire eyes to never move from him. There was a moment of absolute pin-drop silence as the whole room held it’s breath, before Enjolras broke the silence, and consequently breaking eye contact. His annoyed gaze returned to the papers in front of him.

“Bahorel said you’d be coming. I at least expected you to arrive on time.” He muttered, voice laced with irritated disdain. Grantaire’s face flushed, the anger in him rising once more, but he said nothing, and instead moved to sit between Bahorel and Bossuet, who were both avoiding his eyes.

The meeting continued, and if Enjolras’ voice was a little more pinched, his body language terse, Grantaire didn’t notice it. He didn’t notice much of anything, not with those sinful lips moving so carefully around each word. Enjolras’ voice, now laced with passionate anger, was mesmerizing, and R found himself abandoning any and all principles he thought he might’ve had. It had the power to make him believe in something, anything.

What shook him out of his reverie was Joly silently leaning forward and setting a muffin in front of him, and pushing Bossuet’s water towards him. Of course, Joly _would_ notice the shakiness in his hands and pallid color of his face. They shared a silent exchange of gratitude, communicating through a series of facial expressions before Joly smiled softly and turned his attention back to the front of the room. Enjolras was staring directly into Grantaire, burning holes into him. Apparently, it was _his_ fault for Joly’s lack of concentration. Grantaire’s eyes never left Enjolras as he bit into the muffin, the solid food settling heavily in his empty stomach. He was grateful for the substance, and drank the water greedily.

“Hey, you doing okay?” Jehan asked, leaning over Bahorel to whisper.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He whispered in response, giving Jehan a thankful smile. He finished off his muffin setting his hand on the table as he returned his focus to Enjolras, stomach filling, once again, with those god-awful butterflies. He watched, mesmerized for awhile before Joly reached across Bossuet with a concerned look on his face, grabbing R’s left hand. It was paint stained, still. But Joly’s worry was focused on a forming bruise on his knuckle, surrounding a strip of broken skin. It was from boxing, a surprise hit to his chest causing him to lose his form as he lashed back. He had forgotten about it, but if Joly’s frown was anything to consider, he probably shouldn’t have. As Joly fussed with his hand, pulling out an ever-present bottle of neosporin, R let his focus shift back to Enjolras.

“We’ll meet outside the police station Saturday morning, and we’ll remain there all day. We can take turns getting food and such, but I want at least ten of us there at any given time. Remember our focus- police brutality is running rampant, and we need to bring attention to it- bring these officer’s actions into focus. Maybe then they’ll stop their injustices.” Enjolras said, voice rising to a passionate thrum. Grantaire had slowly began to listen to Enjolras’ words, becoming accustomed to the rise and fall of the vehement but melodic voice. At the last statement, Grantaire left out a huff of a laugh, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, is something funny?” Enjolras asked, eyes and voice steely with anger, mouth twisting into a sour frown. Grantaire’s cheeks flushed at the attention, everyone’s eyes looking between the two men. There were two ways he could go about this. He could say no, and let Enjolras continue. But something close to lust, a primal need for skin against skin, a sheer want bubbled to the surface of his skin; with that gaze, that focus. The attention was addicting.

“Not funny, per say. Just surprising.” He said, voice flashing a challenge, heart thumping at the scrutiny.

“And what, if I may ask, is so surprising? Are you in _favor_ of police brutality?” Enjolras proposed, eyes flashing angrily. Bossuet shifted uncomfortably next to R, his arm brushing his side. Bahorel scoffed next to him, rolling his eyes.

“Fuck, no.” Grantaire countered, posture straightening up. “I just don’t see how you can change the inherent violence of men in a position of power with a few signs and chants. It seems unlikely.” He disputed, shrugging his shoulders. His eyes didn’t leave the other man’s and they were in some sort of impasse, it seemed.

“We can bring light to their corruption. The more people notice, the more they are going to observe and pay attention to the violence. They will be forced to stop.” Enjolras countered, voice indignant and laced with shock.

“I don’t see how that could help. The people will remain willfully ignorant, as they always have. It sounds useless to me.”

“Useless? Like your presence here?” Enjolras cut in, spitting the words. “Honestly, you show up late reeking of alcohol, you distract everyone with food and chit chat, and then challenge our beliefs?” Enjolras was enraged. Grantaire had been wrong before, the slight annoyance in those blue eyes at the beginning of the meeting was nothing compared to this. This was the avenging angel Raphael. Grantaire’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, caught somewhere between heartbreak and absolute lividity.

_Useless._

He saw the others in his peripheral vision, not registering their reactions. Courfeyrac was standing, jaw tight and face angry as ever. Bahorel was leaned over the table, fists clenched, and the other’s were staring in shock- not knowing how to react.

Grantaire’s mouth gaped open and closed, searching for words to respond. Before he could lash out again, his jaw snapped shut, teeth grinding together. He pushed his chair back as he stood, sweeping to the exit. He didn’t want to see that anger bottled up in Enjolras’ eyes again- but the artist in him longed for one last glance. R let himself look back and into pained eyes. _Cyan blue. That’s it_. He dragged his gaze away, exiting the room in silence, stepping into the frigid December air. He had half of a whiskey bottle and an unopened bottle of cyan blue oil paint waiting for him at home.

_Useless._

 

* * *

  


Bahorel didn’t think he had ever been this angry. Just the afternoon before, Grantaire had been talking about how well he’d been doing. He thought he’d been making actual progress, and _of course,_ Enjolras had to go and fuck that up. As soon as the door closed behind Grantaire, Bahorel’s mouth opened, ready to rip him a new asshole.

“ _Outside_ , Enjolras.” He asked, voice low and quiet and an absolute _threat_ . Enjolras looked annoyed still, hesitating before nodding in response and stepping outside the Musain. Bahorel followed close behind and made sure Grantaire was nowhere in sight before backing the larger man against the wall of the bar. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me, Enjolras?!” He spat, hands curling into tight fists. “What makes you think you can speak to him like that?” Bahorel demanded, pushing one finger into the center of Enjolras’ chest.

“I was _thinking,_ that this man comes into our meeting, reeking like a drunk, distracting everyone with his snacks, asking Joly to look at his trivial injuries, the chit chat with Jehan, and then he had the _audacity to challenge me!”_ Enjolras countered, as sure of himself as ever. “He was rude and disruptive and ill-behaved. And more importantly, drunk!”

“You didn’t think, for one moment, that maybe Joly gave him food because he looked like he hadn’t eaten in days?” Bahorel jabbed his finger into Enjolras’ chest, his voice gaining volume. He could remember the last time Grantaire went on a binge; the only thing that touched his stomach was alcohol and the occasional piece of bread Joly forced him to eat. Grantaire had lost most of his weight then, and it had taken him ages to get his strength back in order to get back into the boxing ring.

Bahorel didn’t remember the last time he was this livid with rage- couldn’t remember. “You don’t think he maybe reeked of whiskey is because _he is a struggling alcoholic?!”_ Bahorel whispered the last bit, but it was nothing short of terrifying. He was Grantaire’s drinking buddy for a reason- Bahorel was a heavyweight and could handle his alcohol. He was constantly taking care of Grantaire after long nights, and had heard the sober thoughts that slipped from his drunken mouth.

Bahorel towered over Enjolras, both in height and frame. “Enjolras, his knuckle was busted. The last time he had a busted fist, Joly had to disinfect it every day for a month because he ignored it and let it get infected.” Bahorel spoke, voice quiet and terse. He remembered Grantaire’s knuckles, swollen and bleeding after a particularly rowdy bar fight. Bahorel had watched him pour a shot of vodka over the injured hand, R muttering about alcohol being a disinfectant. More clearly, he could remember Joly’s shocked face when he saw his hand about a week later.

“The last time Jehan saw him, R didn’t think he could be alone and he _thankfully_ reached out to Jehan for help. He was checking in on him, you thick-headed asshole.” Bahorel didn’t like to think about that. He remembered Jehan being unable to tell him the details of what happened, but Grantaire stayed with Jehan for a week that month. If Jehan hadn’t wanted to discuss it, it must’ve been awful. Bahorel could only imagine.

“He has been waxing fucking poetics about you for the last week and you-.” Bahorel pulled back, the gravity of the situation sobered his anger. “ _Holy fucking shit_ \- you called him useless, Enjolras.” _Useless._

Enjolras looked confused and guilty. Bahorel liked the guy, he really did. But he loved Grantaire. And this was just fucked up.

“I didn’t call him useless, I called his _presence_ useless.” Enjolras said tightly, expression full of confusion and indignation.

“I can guarantee you right fucking now that Grantaire is _not_ going to see it that way.” Bahorel countered, rubbing a tattooed hand over his bearded face. “You better fix this. I’m not putting him back together again.” He said quietly, the rage leaving his body. His eyes met Enjolras’ again, narrowing. “Fix it.”


	3. Overexacting and Delicate Acting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrocks: here’s ur heads up, babe.
> 
> R: ???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrriiiight. If you didn't notice, I keep adding chapters. Oops. There's a reason for that, I promise.
> 
> Chapter title is from Alarms in the Heart by Dry the River! Gorgeous song, trust me. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my trash slinging slashers (Lia and Merrius), Kyle, and Azura for all of y'all's endless inspiration and encouragement. I can't appreciate you all enough. 
> 
> The music that Grantaire plays at the Corinthe is Dry the River's Shallow Bed Acoustic album. If you can't tell, I really want you guys to listen to them. 
> 
> Once again, my friends, the paint train rolls in  
> toot toot

After that meeting, Grantaire went home and did just what he thought he would. By the end of that night he was out of any and all blank canvases, out of cyan blue and scarlet paint, and very much out of whiskey. And that’s how that week went.

Between painting and the ever-present hangover, Grantaire worked as much as he could, though he dreaded it.

The morning after the meeting, Grantaire showed up to the Corinthe an hour late and reeking of whiskey, his arms covered in paint. He hadn’t had the opportunity to shower. Courfeyrac’s nose crinkled, but he said nothing. For once. That quiet that R was so thankful for ended after about two minutes.

“Are you okay?” Courf blurted, eyes round. Grantaire almost felt guilty, but he drowned that feeling quickly with a long sip from the strongest coffee he could’ve brewed.

“I’m fine.” He muttered, throat scratchy from misuse and the pack of cigarettes he burned through the night before.

“Oh, thank god.” Courfeyrac dragged a dramatically placed hand to rest over his heart. “I was so fucking worried, R! You just left, you didn’t tell anyone where you were going or if you would be okay.”

“He didn’t really give me a choice.” Grantaire didn’t even say  _ his _ name, but the sentence still burned in his mouth. He could see Courfeyrac in his peripheral, looking absolutely murderous. Which, on Courfeyrac, just looked like a disappointed mum.

“You’re right about that. And don’t think he didn’t get the yelling of a lifetime. After Bahorel ripped him a new asshole, I was on him about it too.” Courfeyrac huffed. “Bahorel scared the shit out of him. Good thing, too. And I rode his ass all the way to feeling sorry about it, at least.” He thought for a moment, his mouth finally slowing down. “Although, I think the worst was from the others. They left, they didn’t say a word. Except for Ferre. Ferre just looked at him for the rest of the night, with that watchful stare that’s so calculating you feel like a particularly difficult equation.” Courf let out what sounded like a moan. If he were in a better mood, Grantaire would’ve rolled his eyes. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the dark coffee in front of him. “Honestly, as terrifying as that stare is, he’s just so hot. You can’t help but get so  _ hot _ .”

It continued like that for the rest of the shift; Courfeyrac talking, and Grantaire not even pretending to listen. He tried not to think, either. Not about anything serious, at least. But he winced anytime Enjolras was mentioned, and if his heartbeat quickened at any sight of blond hair entering the Corinthe, R didn’t let it show.

* * *

The next morning was odd; everything was the same, but not really. He didn’t notice it at first, lost in the haze of yet another hangover, still tipsy from the restless night before. He entered in the Corinthe around seven, sitting down behind the counter for a moment, like usual, and sighed in relief. It was quiet. Dead silent.  _ Wait… _ Grantaire opened his eyes, standing back up. “Courf?” He asked the empty coffee shop, eyebrows pulled together.

“Nope.” Said a voice behind him. He whipped around as fast as his blurred, sluggish reflexes let him, surprised to be standing in front of a girl.

She was his height, with dark eyes. Her hair was dark and long, fading into a soft caramel that matched her skin color. His eyes trailed down, taking note of thinly lined, black, unfilled tattoos darting across her arms. Grantaire would paint her with silver and dark reds.  _ Oh. Eponine. _

“You’re not Courfeyrac.” He muttered, moving his hand up to rub at the ache behind his forehead. She raised an eyebrow.

“Courf traded me the night shift last night for this one. I needed the money, and he needed to be off this morning. Something about that stupid activist shit.” She murmured under her breath. Grantaire really loved her.

The night shift was a bit of a legend in the Corinthe. It supposedly sucked to work, and there were only two people who were ever up to do it. Feuilly, who was up to work anytime anywhere, and Eponine. He had missed her dearly.

“You’re hungover.” She stated plainly, moving to turn the coffee machines on, starting to brew the first pots since the graveyard shift.

“I am indeed. When am I not, O Artemis?” He croaked, trying to crack a smile and failing miserably. The beeping of the machines causing the dull ache in his head to diffuse into a steady pounding. For the first time that morning, Grantaire saw a smirk graced her full lips. She didn’t answer, instead pouring two cups of coffee. She held one out to him, a peace offering of sorts. “Thanks.” He said gratefully, nodding.

“So Feuilly can’t work the nightshift with me this week.” She spoke bluntly, going to unlock the doors to the Corinthe. “He needs someone to cover.” She said, as if that was explanation in itself.

“Okay.. You want me to pick them up?” He asked, a little confused. She was used to having that effect on people.

“Would you rather work at ass o’clock in the morning with someone as talkative as Courfeyrac?” She asked, a lazy smile pulling her lips back. It was almost cheshire-like. R adored her.

“Fair point.” He shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

 

* * *

 

And that was how Grantaire started working the night shift at the Corinthe. It definitely suit him better, and he emailed Feuilly after a couple days, asking for a permanent trade off. 

R and Eponine took to each other’s company easily, as usual; both enjoying the quiet presence of the other. She usually brought in books with her (which Grantaire discovered gleefully were filthy romance novels), and Grantaire always brought a sketchpad. The nights were quiet, with only a few people ever there at one time. The soft lighting painted the cafe in delicate orange light, creating a lovely ambiance. They made coffee every few hours, taking it upon themselves to drink the rest of it. They talked sometimes, but not always. .

A few nights after their first shift together, R made the mistake of asking her if she had heard anything from Marius, and she said not a word to him the rest of the night. Grantaire didn’t think she was angry- but he didn’t push her to talk, either. The next day it was as if it never happened, and he wasn’t going to look that particular gift horse in the mouth. He never brought it up again.

Grantaire was learning new things about the Corinthe- like the auxiliary chord in the back room so he could play his own music. Which Eponine called  _ ‘awfully depressing’,  _ Though she hummed along anyway.

He took to sketching Eponine; she really was positively stunning. He even brought his pastels one night, spreading a large, thick sheet of paper on the floor. She laughed at him, and did the silliest pose she could, her book propped up in front of her face as she read. It was nice to sketch something real and solid, someone he could look at and refer to. It was a welcome relief he didn’t know he needed. The only thing he painted at home was a memory- the one scorched into his mind. It did nothing but fill him with anger and self pity. And here, at three thirty in the morning, existing quietly alongside Eponine, it was hard to be angry and self pitying anyway. Not drawing _ him  _ only made it easier.

Of course, Enjolras was still on his mind. Grantaire didn’t think he could ever stop thinking about it. And honestly, it was fucking pathetic of him. He had met him twice, and he still couldn’t get Enjolras’ voice out of his head. Grantaire did his best not to think of him, though. He really did his best.

* * *

Around two in the morning on that Friday, eight days after he had been kicked out of the Musain, found Grantaire and Eponine sitting on the counters of the Corinthe. She was reading a novel, and he was sketching quietly. It was a Bad Night for him, and he had yet to break the silence. Eponine,  _ bless her, _ respected that. That day he hadn’t been able to get out of bed. He worked until five, usually and slept till about eleven in the morning. But that morning, he stayed there, drifting in and out of consciousness until his work alarm went off at nine that night.

They were quietly doing their respective tasks, Grantaire’s hands going against his wishes- and sketching the vision of angry eyes. He was halfway through the second eye when he got a text.  _ That’s odd… _

 

**_Courfeyrocks: here’s ur heads up, babe._ **

 

**_R: ???_ **

 

As Grantaire sent the text, the door to the Corinthe opened quickly, and he and Eponine looked up. There was a bustle of noise, and Grantaire’s heart jumped into his throat. Members of Les Amis entered, all laughing and obviously tipsy. They were missing Marius, Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. But everyone else was there, laughing and calling his name. 

His gaze shifted at exactly the wrong moment, to meet with an intense, unreadable stare. It knocked R’s breath from his lungs, and his face flooded with heat. He felt Eponine’s cool hand on his wrist, taking the sketchbook from his hands and sliding it shut. He’d have to thank her for that later.

Grantaire could feel panic rising, his chest heaving, until Courfeyrac reached a hand across the counter, hand falling on his shoulder. “Hey!” He said, obviously trying to give R an excuse to look away. “Sorry to crash your pity party,” he winced at the soft acoustic guitar humming from the speakers, “but we were in the neighborhood and holy shit, I’ve missed you, R!” Courf came around the other side of the counter to hug him.

Honestly, R wasn’t really comprehending any of it- his mind disassociating immediately. He felt foggy. Courf knew him well enough, and stepped back to join the friends at a table near the small makeshift stage on the other side of the cafe.

“You okay?” He heard Eponine ask, but all he could do was nod. Apollo was still there at the door, feet rooted into place. Grantaire’s mind recalled the first time they were there, staring at each other in this cafe; the first time R had seen him, descending from the heavens into the Corinthe. He had felt himself soaring in the upper air of faith, then. Now, it felt like a heavy weight was dragging his shoulders down, a tide suffocating him. Enjolras stepped to the counter, cheeks dusted red. He wasn’t meeting Grantaire’s eyes anymore, and his mouth was opening.

R tuned into the moment, snapping himself back so he could listen, but there was nothing to hear. Enjolras stood there, in front of him, gaping like a fish.

“Speechless for once?” Grantaire heard himself say, and  _ god damn _ , that was not what he wanted to say. He wanted to say so many things, and that wasn’t it.  _ Fuck.  _ He watched as Enjolras blinked up at him in surprise, mouth snapping shut before twisting into a disappointed frown. Grantaire leaned forward, waiting for something, anything. He was about to apologize, if only just so the silence would be broken. Then, he watched as Enjolras’ tongue wet his filthy lips before opening to talk.

“Double-shot vanilla frapp with extra whip.” Apollo ordered, and Grantaire faltered. He didn’t register the silence of the cafe, their friends watching intently. His face paled, jaw ajar.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” R whispered, face twisted into horrified disgust. Eponine began to make the order behind him, trying to get it done as fast as possible. She sighed softly, knowing exactly what was coming. Grantaire felt a nauseous heat grow in him, and couldn’t hear much beyond the blood in his head. “You don’t even realize it, do you?” He asked, voice shaking with anger. “You don’t even notice the effect your words have on people?” Grantaire’s voice gained confidence. “You may be able to open that pretty mouth of yours and move mountains and stir revolutions or whatever the fuck you like to do, but you do realize that you’re still talking to a human being, right?” He spat, words growing in volume. “Being a good person generally isn’t an excuse to treat someone like shit, okay?”

Grantaire breathed heavily, chest heaving. Eponine set the drink down in front of Enjolras, fixing him with a glare R knew to be deadly. Enjolras nodded, taking out his wallet.

“It’s on the fucking house, Apollo.” He spat, watching as Enjolras nodded, slipping a few dollars into the tip jar, just like the first time they met. Enjolras’ cheeks were red, his lips pulled into a tight line. At least, he had the decency to look embarrassed. Enjolras slipped out the door, without a second glance. And the tension of the room didn’t magically disappear with him, but continued into a stretched out and very uncomfortable silence where the only sound in the room was his harsh breathing.

Eponine went over to the others and murmured soft words into Bahorel’s ear, who began to clear them out. They all said soft goodbyes to him, trickling out the door with looks of pity. Grantaire stood rooted to the spot, breathing uneven and pulse fast. Once everyone was gone, Eponine came to him and forced his hands to free from their grip on the counter. She lowered him to the floor like that, and they sat together. He had never been so happy to have someone to just breathe with him.

* * *

Eponine took him to her apartment that morning, letting him curl into her bed and rest. He stayed there for what felt like days, but was only hours, really. She entered the room quietly around nine that night.

“R, I have to go cover for us.” She said softly. “You don’t have to go tonight, just stay here. Jehan is coming to check on you in a few hours.” Eponine, the goddess that she was, crawled into the bed next to him. She pulled R into a hug, her steady breathing helping him sort his own out.

“He’s a dick, you know.” She whispered gently, playing with one of Grantaire’s curls. “Bahorel told me what happened at the meeting. I would’ve decked him in the face.” She huffed a deprecating laugh. “I am sorry, R. I wish I could do something.” It wasn’t often that Eponine spoke so openly, and it pulled something loose in Grantaire, his mind coming to reality. Slowly, but surely.

“You’re my person.” He responded into the quiet, quoting their favorite show. He was quickly hushed, and he felt the press of lips against his own. Platonic kissing had always been a special, revered part of their relationship. It had started years ago, and they shared kisses when words just weren’t enough. It was exactly what he needed. He pressed back against her lips, his eyes opening. They pulled back, pressing their foreheads together and just breathing.

“Do you think I could come with you tonight?” He whispered, not wanting to be alone in her apartment.

“You mean to the shift you’re supposed to work anyway?” She retorted, a small smile gracing her lips. “Duh.”

Grantaire sighed, pulling himself into a seated position. He needed a warm coffee and soft lighting and his sketchbook. “Thank you.” he said, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. She smiled lopsidedly at him, sighing.

“I wish you didn’t have to thank me.”

And that was how they started their night, sitting on the floor of the Corinthe, Eponine pouring shots of whiskey into sugary drinks, reading aloud from her dirty novels while Grantaire sketched the lines of her beautiful body. No customers came in, no blonds and no groups of rowdy friends. It didn’t feel like a job, it felt like a home. Grantaire thought, in that moment, that maybe this is how it would be. He could be happy like this, maybe. Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos if you caught the Grey's Anatomy quote (there will be another one soon. I am entirely unapologetic). And I quoted the brick, which I won't do often. While I was writing the line, it popped into my head. flowed nicely.
> 
>  
> 
> Fun fact, in case any of you are from Orlando. Which I doubt, but still... The Corinthe is very much based off of Austin's Coffee in Orlando. It's open 24 hours, and has an odd assortment of furniture- couches, mismatched tables. My friend Emma and I have spent many-a-sleepless-night trading Oscar Wilde books back and forth and talking under the lights.


	4. Ill With Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi. Don’t talk for a minute.” Enjolras winced at his own tone, and the derisive snort that slipped from Grantaire’s lips. “I came to apologize.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooookay. The chapter title is from the song Ill With Want by the Avett Brothers.
> 
> This chapter is twice as long as the other chapters. So bear with me.
> 
> As always, thank you to Lia and Merrius, my trash slingin slashers for all the inspiration and proofreading, and Azura for her endless words of encouragement. <3

Grantaire had just clocked into the Corinthe, a few minutes shy of nine thirty on Tuesday night. It was easier to show up on time for the night shifts and he was quickly growing to love the evenings they spent there. Whoever said it was awful must’ve been too normal to handle it. Eponine leaned against the back entrance outside, on the phone with Gavroche. 

He was absentmindedly listening to her soothing and hushed tones, unable to catch any words when the bell above the entrance rang, the door swinging inward and letting a cool wave of air blow through the opening. He held his breath in anticipation, before releasing it when he counted three people, none of whom looked like Apollo incarnate. It was Combeferre and Courfeyrac, followed by Joly. The latter stepped up forward, slamming an unnecessarily large bottle of water down onto the counter, followed by two granola bars. R sighed, knowing exactly what was coming.

“You’re going to eat, drink and listen.” Joly stated firmly, lips curved into a thin frown. He might be a small man, but Grantaire knew better than to underestimate him, much less question him. He didn’t quite look angry, really, but there was something fierce behind his eyes. Grantaire started in on the first granola bar, and listened intently. Joly waited until R took the first bite before beginning.

“Enjolras is a good person. I love him. But he is being an absolute prick and he needs to apologize.” Joly said, not bothering to hide this conversation from their friends, who were standing back, looking uncomfortable. “Apparently, after drinks the other night, he tried. He tried to apologize, and I thought you should know that. But then you opened your mouth and snapped at him.” Joly fixed Grantaire with that look again, and R felt like he was fourteen years old again, Eponine yelling at him like a mother. He just looked down, chewing on his granola, and trying to ignore the heavy stare Combeferre had fixed on him.

“I can’t blame you for snapping at him, I really can’t. You’re a much better man than I am, R. He would’ve been beaten bloody with my cane before he could step into my workplace after something like that- but that’s not why I’m here.” Joly breathed for a moment, sounding unsteady. Grantaire ventured to look up at him, a piece of granola falling from his hand.

“You must take care of yourself, Grantaire. You have to remember to eat sometimes and drink something other than whiskey and espresso.” Grantaire couldn’t tell if Joly was going to shout at him or cry, and he didn’t know which would be worse. “I’m worried about you. You can’t let it get Bad again.” Joly said, voice gentle. Courfeyrac shifted behind Joly, mouth curving into a rare frown. Combeferre continued to gaze at Grantaire unabashedly, not bothering to hide his interest in the conversation.

The Bad that Joly was referring to was the first three months of the year before, when he had met Grantaire for the first time. It had begun with a week of consuming nothing but tequila and stale saltines following his expulsion from art school. Joly had been an intern at the hospital Eponine took him to, and he was assigned to Grantaire for the night. Something about R fascinated Joly- maybe it was just that the man needed some mothering, and Joly was quite adept at mothering. Obviously. And in turn, Joly was the only person who could guilt him into eating solid food or drinking a thirty-two ounce bottle of water, like the one Grantaire was currently drinking from. They had become quick friends and Joly did well at keeping him in line. Between him and Eponine, they helped him pull himself from the worst of those months. It had been a painfully slow process, and had put a strain on their relationship.

Grantaire met Joly’s eyes, and could now identify what was so clearly present there. It was fear.

“I won’t.” Grantaire responded solemnly, after finishing the first granola bar.

“Good.” Was the response he received, squeaked out in a relieved voice that was an octave higher than it should’ve been. A look crossed Joly’s soft face, smoothing out his features; almost a smile. “Remember, R; he is not the sun. You are.” Joly said softly, reaching a hand out to touch his own. Courfeyrac snorted, and Combeferre looked mildly offended that he would laugh at that.

“Joly. You’re telling me you’re ruining a perfectly good moment by quoting the cheesiest medical drama on television?” Grantaire groaned, his lips curling into a smile. And just like that, the tension in the room capped and you could feel everyone release a breath they hadn’t known they’d been holding. 

“Joly, honestly, you’re supposed to be a doctor one day. You can’t possibly watch that show.” Courfeyrac piped up, a smile sliding easily across his face. Grantaire noticed now that his hand was intertwined with Combeferre’s.  _ Oh.  _ He’d have to congratulate them later.

“That should be exactly why I like it!” Joly retorted, eyes growing wide in feigned offense. “There’s lesbian and bisexual representation, a badass Asian-American female main character, and most-importantly  _ disabled _ representation!” He listed, a smile breaking through. “What’s not to like?”

“I don’t know, how about the gratuitous amount of medical inaccuracies and extraneous love triangles?” Combeferre said dryly, an eyebrow raised.  _ Oh yeah _ , Grantaire liked him. The room burst into a fit of laughter, amazed that a man as profoundly stoic as Combeferre would keep up with a show so frivolous.

After that, the evening continued pleasantly. They all sat together at a table near the window, the snow falling thickly onto the ground, muting the sounds of the city. Eponine joined them after a few minutes, enjoying the conversation but not interjecting much. They shared stories, and Grantaire grew to like Combeferre even more. He was actually pretty funny, and exactly what Courfeyrac needed to anchor him to earth. They excused themselves around eleven, knowing the walk home would be tedious, and Joly was very sleepy. Combeferre surprised Grantaire with a solid hug, and Courfeyrac gave him a much expected one, following closely behind.

“Please don’t forget what I said.” Joly insisted, his sleepy eyes sobering into a serious gaze. “And you know to call me if you need anything.” He added, worry heavily gracing his tone.

“I will. Thanks, mom.” R responded; his words joking, his tone serious. He leaned in to give Joly a hug, and found himself in a tight embrace that ended far too soon for his own taste.

If Grantaire found his eyes lingering on Courf and Combeferre’s joined hands, gaze laced with a hurt and a longing he couldn’t begin to describe, no one would know but him.

* * *

 

_ Pivot, step, left hook. Back, pivot, right hook. counter, forward, check hook-  _ “You know I’ve been thinking a lot about that meeting.” Bahorel’s voice cut into his focus, causing his footwork to falter and Grantaire punched the training pads in front of him, consequently punching Bahorel’s hands back. “Dude, sorry. Chill- you look like you need a break.” Bahorel admitted, but his hands remained upright, pads facing Grantaire.

R said nothing, just kept his movements, working on smoothing out the transitions between punches and footwork. _ Bob, weave, left hook. Bob, weave, right hook- _

“I feel bad, almost. Like yeah, Enjolras totally deserved to get his probably bleached asshole ripped into, but I still feel bad. It’s like- he didn’t know what he was doing. And he had no idea what was happening. It was the heat of the moment and so I got pissed, of course.” Bahorel said, arms as strong and firm as always; unmoving despite the tedious blows against them. Grantaire beat them a little harder, putting all of his focus into punching them, teeth grinding together as he breathed heavily through his nose, trying to tune Bahorel out. He abandoned any semblance of form, taking out his frustration with solid, repetitive punches. _ Left hook, right hook- _

“And when I took him outside and- you know, rode his ass like a cowboy, he looked like he was genuinely confused. And I like to think I’m good at reading people- not as good as Ponine or Ferre, but pretty good. And he looked honestly confused…” Bahorel mused, thick eyebrows pulling together, looking puzzled himself.

Grantaire punched into the training pads as hard as he could, irritation growing with every word out of his friend’s mouth.  _ Left hook- _

“He’s not a bad dude, and I know that. But he was such a jackass to you. And Ferre said he’d talked about you all week before the meeting…” Grantaire fumbled, a blow missing the pads and the momentum of the punch pushing him into suspended air. Bahorel caught him easily, supporting his weight. R breathed heavily, chest heaving. He was angry, confused and completely frustrated.

“You good?” Bahorel asked, kneeling as Grantaire moved to sit. He tugged off R’s gloves for him, handing him the bottle of water in the corner of the ring. Grantaire pushed the bottle away, grunting in frustration.

“I’m fucking fine! Can people stop asking me that?” R spat, taking his face into his hands. “And will people please stop talking about ripping into his asshole. Pick another body part, I fucking beg you.” Bahorel, always the image of grace, was having none of that.

“You’re freaking out, aren’t you?” He suggested knowingly, settling into a seated position. Grantaire’s nod of agreement was paired with a pained moan.

“Sorry.” R muttered, feeling bad for his explosion.

“Nah, bro. It’s fine.” Bahorel lamented, reaching and intertwining their fingers together. He never was one to hold back; anger or affection. “You know I love you, right? And I want you to be happy. But you gotta know-”

“I know, Bahorel. Thanks.” R cut him off, already knowing what was coming. He didn’t need to hear that Enjolras wasn’t making him happy. He knew that already. Grantaire laced his fingers a little tighter around Bahorel’s. They were both sweaty and they smelled god-awful, but they loved every moment of it.  “Did Combeferre really say that?” R asked softly, eyes on the blue padding of the ring.

“Yeah. He said Enjolras had been asking about you. He even asked Courf to see some artwork.” Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat, his mouth snapping shut.

“Oh.” He murmured quietly. Bahorel didn’t respond, instead choosing to pull Grantaire up by their intertwined fingers, and dragging their sweaty asses to the showers.

* * *

 

“You know, he may have looked a lot of things, but I’m sure ‘confused’ was not one of them.” Eponine retorted sharply, disapproval at R’s musings lining her face heavily. She sat on the counter of the Corinthe, a cup of strong chai tea in her self-manicured hands. 

“Ponine, no offense, but you weren’t there. Bahorel was.” Grantaire sighed, pursing his lips as his gaze fell to the sketchbook in front of him, the white blank page mocking him. His hands fidgeted, desperate to draw or paint or  _ anything. _ He couldn’t- he hadn’t been able to all day. And he didn’t know why.

The early morning was quiet, the thick blanket of snow delicate looking beneath the sunrise. It was freezing outside, getting closer and closer to the holidays. Eponine and him had been inventing new holiday drinks all night- and took a break when the peppermint chai combination almost made Grantaire hurl. He still felt kind of sick, really. A customer stood to leave, a man they saw come in every once in awhile, nose buried in a computer and a large, dusty looking book. It reminded him of Enjolras- watching the focus on his face as he worked that first day.

“R, you’re hiding something from me.” Eponine spoke nonchalantly, her piercing eyes not leaving his face. “Or at least holding back.” She acquiesced, bringing her drink to her lips.  _ ‘I’m waiting’  _ her gaze seemed to say.

“Bahorel said that Combeferre said that Enjolras was asking about me.” He strung together, pursing his lips tightly. Eponine groaned in response, and his eyes jumped to meet hers. “What? He said it- not me.”

“Listen to you- _ he said, he said, they said-”  _ and hey, that’s not what he sounded like _ ,  _ “I’m sick of it, Grantaire. Enjolras didn’t say it to you and that’s what matters. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing that despite how awfully he treated you, you’re sitting here- at five in the morning- trying to figure out how to excuse his shit behavior!” And of course, Eponine was right. Eponine was always right. Her eyebrows were raised, shackles up. R didn’t know if he could give up on this easily.

“Honestly, Ep. If there’s even a chance that he doesn’t hate me…” He trailed off, and Eponine’s eyes softened. She leaned forward, taking the hand that had been fidgeting over the still-blank page in front of him, and squeezing it softly. The door to the Corinthe swung open, and Enjolras stepped in.

“You’re selling yourself short, love.” She said loudly and firmly, back turned to the entrance. Grantaire didn’t hear her, eyes trained on the door. Eponine didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. “I’m going home- Gav has to get to school early.” She slid off the counter and sauntered past him into the back room. “Be careful.” Grantaire didn’t know if she was talking to him or Enjolras.

He stood there, not an inch out of the doorframe, looking just as stricken as R felt. The soft light of the Corinthe shined against his hair like spun gold.

Grantaire’s feet were rooted to the spot, his hands clenching and unclenching against the empty-paged sketchbook in his hands. He was vaguely aware of a sense of deja-vu, this scene being played not for the second, but the third time.

Of course, Enjolras had to cut into the silence, his voice tight and his cheeks tinted pink. “Hi. Don’t talk for a minute.” He winced at his own tone, and the derisive snort that slipped from Grantaire’s lips. “I came to apologize.” He stated firmly, his jaw clenched and body wound tight.

R’s heart thumped loudly in his chest, and he was briefly afraid that it was audible to not just him. “I’m listening.” He said quietly, his eyes quickly breaking contact with Enjolras’.

“I’m sorry I lectured you in front of our friends. It was not the time nor the place.” It sounded forced; rehearsed, almost. “I’m sorry that what I said upset you, and I have no active intention of doing it again.” Grantaire noted that though Enjolras did apologize, he was remorseful for the effect of his actions- but not that the words he spoke. He wasn’t sorry for saying them, only sorry for the consequences that came from it. But honestly, Enjolras could’ve done worse, he supposed. As Enjolras talked, and in the following silence, Grantaire busied his hands with making them drinks.

R stared at him for a long moment after the apology finished and he no longer had something to distract his hands; his chest aching and feeling ill with want. Enjolras’ hair was slightly damp from the weather, flakes of snow already melting against the shoulders of his maroon peacoat.

He set a drink down in front of Enjolras, pushing it forward. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Enjolras echoed, for once sounding like he was unsure of something. He looked thrown- there was a sheen of sweat on his temple and his hands twitched awkwardly at his sides. It was these small things he noticed, now that they were close and things were quiet. It made him seem human. He’s not a god, he’s human. Grantaire’s chest squeezed, and he swallowed thickly.  _ A fucking beautiful human, though. _

“Yeah. It’s cool or whatever.” He said dumbly, the words falling from his lips before he could get a chance to question himself. “Forget about it.” And Grantaire ventured a smile, the corners of his lips turning up. Enjolras let out a shaky breath, looking as if the tension had been released from his shoulders. Grantaire, once again, pushed the drink forward. “Here.” He offered quietly, cheeks flushing. “Large hot coffee- half caf, soy, two pumps of caramel and whipped cream.” He recited from memory, clearing his throat nervously.

“I haven’t ordered this in three weeks.” Enjolras responded, his eyes wide. He look positively bewildered, and R’s cheeks burned.

“I know, but it seemed like you liked it better than the other one.”  _ Double-shot vanilla frapp with extra whip.  _ R didn’t think he could forget a word that’s ever fallen from those lips. Enjolras’ mouth curled into a smile, an honest  _ smile _ . It felt like sunlight was falling into the Corinthe, and all Grantaire wanted to do was snatch up the charcoal pencil on the counter and sketch. Or paint, or sculpt, or take a fucking picture. His stomach burst into butterflies, skin warm.

“You’re right.” Enjolras conceded, bringing the ridiculously sugary drink to his mouth, lips curling around the edge. If Grantaire was a worse man, or Courfeyrac maybe, he would’ve moaned. But he was adept at holding his tongue. Sometimes. “Do you mind if I work on something?” He asked tentatively, holding up what R now saw was a computer bag.

“N-no. I mean, yes, you can.” He stuttered, tearing his eyes away from Enjolras’ sinfully tempting mouth. “I mean, the cafe’s open all night. Courf will be here in like- two hours to take over.” He added, inwardly cursing his falter. Enjolras nodded, eyebrows pulling together as he took a seat.  _ On the bar stool next to the counter. Fuck. _

“So you’re here all night? Every night?” Enjolras prompted, trying to start an honest-to-god conversation with him. Grantaire took his usual spot on the carpet behind the counter, sitting with his knees pulled to his chest. He was looking up at Enjolras, who was looking at him over the top of his computer.

Grantaire slipped his sketchbook into his lap, picking up his pencil. “Yeah. Well, not every night. Sometimes I get Sundays and Mondays off; Feuilly can work those nights.” He shrugged. “But yeah, I’m here from nine to seven in the morning.”

“Do you sleep?” Enjolras asked suddenly, eyes very focused on his computer screen.

“A few hours in the morning, yeah. But the lightings best then.” He offered as an explanation. He took great pleasure in coming home from a long shift, and settling in front of his easel in front of his east-facing window, and losing a few hours to color and booze, before passing out from exhaustion until his next shift.

“Hmm.” Enjolras hummed, his fingers flying over the keyboard. The silence stretched for a few minutes, the only sounds of the room were Enjolras’ keys tapping and the soft hush of Grantaire’s pencil over paper.  _ “Fuck.” _

The pencil in his hand slipped at that, and _ holy god, _ no one should sound that  _ goddamn sexy  _ from just muttering a curse. “Everything okay?” He ventured after the swear was followed with a stony silence. Enjolras took his eyes off his screen, gaze still in utter focus. He looked down at Grantaire’s sketchbook- and he could practically see the gears turning behind cyan blue eyes.

R had been drawing a picture of Bahorel from memory. In the sketch, he had boxing gloves raised to cover part of his face, his eyes peeking over them. They looked manic and elated; it was a look Grantaire knew well.

“You can draw.” Enjolras said slowly.

“I- yes?” Grantaire said, confused.

“Can I see more?” _Fuck_ _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-_ “The ABC needs to have a poster for next month’s rally, and our graphic designer just flaked on us.” He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Actually, a hand-drawn poster might be more powerful.” He mused, eyes lighting up.

“I don’t really know if I’m the best man for the job.” Grantaire admitted slowly, his heartbeat pacing faster as he shut his sketchbook. “I’m going to be honest with you. Do you really want someone who doesn’t believe in your cause creating your poster?” He asked, bluntly honest. There were no misconceptions about how he felt about the ABC. He had never been afraid to speak about it before, so why was he so  _ nervous? _

Enjolras’ curiosity snapped shut, his head shaking slightly. “I guess you’re right.” He kept his lips shut tight, growing antsy in his seat.  _ Oh christ.  _ “Okay, but why  _ don’t _ you agree with the cause? I mean you’re not ignorant- I’ve heard of the things you’ve done-” And was that a blush rising on Enjolras’ cheeks? “-but what makes you disagree with us? Do you really think people shouldn’t have these basic rights?” He asked, seeming honestly curious.

Grantaire breathed deeply for a moment, thinking about his answer. He didn’t want them to descend into their previous state of not-friendship. “Of course I think people should have basic rights.” He began, setting his sketchbook to his side and standing so he was in front of Enjolras, only the counter and computer separating them. “I would never deny anyone’s right to love who they please- myself included, or their right to be referred to as their preferred gender. I think education shouldn’t be as massively institutionalized and costly as it is, among many of the other things you stand for.” Enjolras’ face looked dumbstruck, mouth falling slightly open.

“But-”

“I just don’t think it can happen.” He interrupted, eyes falling from where they met. “I don’t think the world’s going to change- I don’t think that the sheer amount of disgusting ignorance and fucked up stupidity is ever going to leave our society.” He thought for a moment. “I mean- who is more naive? The ignorant? Or the people who think they can change them?”

“But it only starts with us.” Enjolras countered quickly, something akin to passion ablaze in his eyes. “It’s not a movement we expect to sweep through the world in one night, it’s something we’ve worked on for years and years, and I’ll keep working on until I’m six feet in the ground.” He shut his laptop. “If you want equality and change in the world, but you don’t believe it can be achieved, then the problem starts with people like you.”

A tense silence followed after, before R sighed, annoyed. “Right. People like me.” He breathed through his nose for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “You know, have you ever thought that the reason  _ people like me _ are the way they are is because we didn’t grow up in a world where things could be fixed with a well-written essay and finely placed donation?” He countered, hands gripping the counter tightly.

“That’s not a solid argument.” Enjolras declared stiffly, nostrils flared. “That was a personal dig at a professional matter.”

“Really? I didn’t realize this was a professional situation.”

A long silence stretched after that, Enjolras openly staring at Grantaire in a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Their stares were confrontational, a maddening tension building with every second. Grantaire realized absently that his jeans were a tight, and his cheeks flushed red. _Well._ That’s awkward. He broke eye contact, subtly angling himself away from Enjolras so he could get his breath under control. Since when did _arguing arouse him?_ _Fuck._

After an awkward amount of silence had passed, a soft laugh fell from R’s lips.

“Something funny?” Enjolras implored, eyes flashing, though he looked less angry than he had a few minutes ago.

“Not funny, just-” He broke off for a moment, huffing another laugh. “We can’t be in the same room together for longer than twenty minutes, apparently.” Noticing that Enjolras didn’t find this funny, he sighed. “I didn’t mean to piss you off, Apollo. You’re the one who asked.” He said honestly, rubbing a hand over his tired face. Another silence stretched between them before Enjolras’ lips parted.

“Sorry.” He squeezed out between clenched teeth. He was obviously not sorry at all, but at least it was an improvement. They were getting better.

“Me too.” Grantaire said, picking his coffee up off the counter and taking a long drink. He seemed to have gotten his dick to  _ sit the hell down _ , but his blood was still running hot. He needed more. So much more. “I’ll do the posters for you.” R conceded, biting on his lip. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll convince me.” Grantaire’s face fell into a sly smile, heavily lidded eyes glancing up.

Enjolras looked floored; absolutely mystified. His pupils were blown wide, face pink. “Yeah. Maybe I will.” He responded breathily, breaking eye contact with Grantaire to look at the watch on his wrist.  _ Of course he wore a fucking watch.  _ “That means you’ll have to be at meetings.” He added, eyeing R peculiarly. “Can you  _ handle  _ that?” And- was that  _ sarcasm _ ?

“I can take more than you’d think.” Grantaire intimated quickly, his flushed cheeks being the only thing to hint at his innuendo.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. “Mature.” He retorted, standing from the bar stool. “I’m afraid I have to get to class.”

“Go. Take advantage of your institutionalized privileges.” Grantaire said, though his tone was light, eyes bright. “Always a pleasure to argue with you, Apollo.”

Enjolras turned to him for a moment, a small smile gracing his lips. It was almost nonexistent; if Grantaire hadn’t been so focused on watching every minute movement on his face, he might’ve missed it.

“Grantaire, don’t be late tomorrow.” Enjolras said, showing a flash of amused teeth before sweeping out the door.

Grantaire was left to the quiet of the cafe, left alone with his thoughts and apparently unrelenting hard-on.  _ Well shit. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. That was fun, wasn't it?  
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed. Feedback is all us writers have to thrive on, yanno. 
> 
> I'd ask you to forgive me for the Grey's Anatomy references, but honestly I'm not sorry. <3


	5. In Dearth or In Excess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow?” It was a question, one full of expectancy and something else R didn’t want to place. Hope was what his mind supplied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really am sorry for the lack of update!!! Only one more chapter after this one so you guys won't be waiting terribly long.
> 
> Chapter title is from Montezuma by Fleet Foxes (this whole chapter was written to that album, so go take a listen! it's what i had in mind for playing in the background at the Corinthe)

“So you’re going?”

“Yep.”

“You’re _ actually _ going back there.” 

“Yes, Eponine. I’m  _ actually _ going back there.”

“Well _ fuck. _ You do have it bad.”

Grantaire was well aware he had it bad. He hadn’t been able to get the image of Enjolras’ soft curls and flushed cheeks out of his mind since he had come by the Corinthe that night. The biting smile Enjolras had left him with had consumed his sketches, just a flash of teeth- quick and white and  _ hot.  _ It was fucking erotic, it really was.

Eponine’s heavy sigh tore him from his thoughts. She was fixing him with a gaze that he knew well. “Please don’t let him fuck this up. If he pulls that shit one more time, I swear, I will be the one pulling him into an alley- and Bahorel will be right behind me.” She muttered, eyes returning to her romance novel, though she was clearly unfocused on it. “He doesn’t deserve another chance.”    


“He apologized, Ponine.” He reminded her, flipping through his sketchbook. It wasn’t  _ all _ Enjolras. He still had some sketches of Eponine, a couple of Bahorel, and one of Jehan. But yeah- it was mostly Enjolras.

The door to the Corinthe chimed open, Combeferre stepping inside. He was wearing a peacoat, the shoulders of it dusted with snow from outside. Grantaire laughed loudly.

“You and Enjolras share clothes now?” He teased, smiling widely at Combeferre, who didn’t look slightly embarrassed.    


“He stole my purple button-up in seventh grade. It’s only fair.” Was the droll reply he received, and it even elicited a chuckle from Eponine. “Can I just have a triple shot of espresso?” He asked, setting his coat down on the barstool that Enjolras had previously taken. 

“Damn, Ferre.” R said, whistling lowly. “It’s almost bedtime for you college kids, isn’t it?” He asked, already pouring the shots into a mug, a lazy smile pulling across his face.

“The Peace Rally is two weeks from tomorrow.” Combeferre said as an explanation. “I actually won’t be here long, Enjolras is supposed to be meeting me for a bit.” He added, his calculating gaze sliding towards Grantaire, as if to gauge his response. R, of course, tried and ultimately failed not to have a noticeable reaction.

Grantaire’s face flushed, swallowing thickly as that feeling in his stomach cropped up. Anticipation wasn’t something he was good at handling, honestly. “Oh, alright.” He said warily. Eponine snorted quietly, the pages of her novel flipping. “Can I ask you a question?” He asked Combeferre carefully, setting the mug in front of him.

Ferre looked at him for a very long moment, thinking hard and R began to grow uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. “Enjolras is single. And gay.” 

Grantaire choked on his own air, coughing for a moment. “Oh.” His face flushed bright red, knees feeling a little weak as he looked everywhere but Combeferre. “O-okay.” 

The door to the Corinthe swept open, cold air whipping through the cafe for a moment until it shut again. This time, Enjolras didn’t get stuck at the door. “Hello.” He greeted the room with an air of comfort, approaching the barstool next to Combeferre, and taking a seat.

Grantaire didn’t respond, but began making Enjolras’ usual order.

Combeferre spoke to Enjolras for a while, their hushed voices mixing pleasantly with the acoustic music playing over the cafe’s speakers. It created a warm atmosphere. They were focused on Combeferre’s computer screen, probably trying to overthrow the government, or something equally as ambitious. Enjolras didn’t even look up when Grantaire set the coffee down. 

R sat next to Eponine where she was on the floor, and she rested her head on his shoulder, continuing to read. He pulled his sketchbook into his lap, starting to draw Enjolras and Combeferre’s forms, faces lit with the light of the laptop. Courfeyrac was right- they were ridiculously beautiful. He was halfway through getting the shading of Combeferre’s unfairly perfect skin just right, when Enjolras’ voice cut through.

“That’s really good.” He said loudly, and R looked up to meet his eye. There was a small smile curving at the edge of his beautifully full lips, and Grantaire wanted to bite it off.

“It’s nothing- I’m just fucking around.” R shrugged, holding out the sketchbook and placing it in Combeferre’s outstretched hand. He flipped to the next page, chuckling at the half-assed sketch of Bahorel laughing, and held it out for Enjolras to see. Enjolras dragged a lithe finger across the page before looking up and meeting R’s eyes with a bright look, that beautiful, crooked smile hanging off his lips. 

“You capture Bahorel wonderfully.” Combeferre said, eyes crinkling with a small smile as he held the sketchbook back for R. He could see why Courfeyrac loved him so much- he’d be pretty smitten himself if Enjolras didn’t exist. But he did exist, so Grantaire was a little preoccupied. He took the sketchbook back, closing it and setting it on the counter.

“I just know him well, is all.” R flushed at the attention, moving to refill Enjolras’ drink. 

The room was quiet for a moment, save for Eponine’s sigh. She was well versed in the matters of Grantaire’s self confidence, and knew better than to push. Unfortunately, Enjolras did not know any better.

“No- that’s  _ not _ all.” Enjolras finally spoke, his voice sounding a little shaky for once. “Stop belittling your own work.” He said fervently, cheeks flushing with passion, or something else. 

Grantaire looked at him for a moment, before continuing to make the coffee. 

“I’m serious, R. You’re really talented! You should be in art school, not here at the Corinthe making coffee at two in the morning.” Enjolras spoke vehemently, a smile spreading across his face. If Grantaire had looked up from his shaking hands, he might have been blinded. 

It was Eponine who spoke next, her voice low in her throat- very much sounding like a mother. “Enjolras.” She chided, fixing him with a glare Grantaire knew to be deadly.

“What? I’m being honest. I know one of the art professors; I took an art history class last semester, I’d be happy to send in some of your work.” Enjolras said, reaching for the sketchbook on the counter. 

Grantaire slammed his hand onto the book, stopping Enjolras from taking it. “Please stop.” He said quietly. Combeferre looked up from the laptop, lips pursed. He knew when to stop, but it seemed Enjolras did not have that sense.

“I’m not going to stop, R. You’re really talented- and every young person has a right to education! You have a gift and you should go to school for it. There’s a few art scholarships available- you could-”

“Shut up.” R said tersely, biting his bottom lip. Enjolras looked like he was going to protest, but Combeferre laid a tense hand on his arm, fixing him with a look. Over the next few moments, they appeared to have a silent conversation- their eyes and eyebrows moving in a series of motions that seemed to be a discussion of sorts.

“Eponine,” Combeferre started, not breaking eye contact with Enjolras. “Can I walk you home?” He asked, tone laced with something that screamed  _ I really don’t want to walk you home but my best friend is being a lovestruck idiot.  _

Not that R recognized that, of course. His eyes hadn’t left his own shaking hand, gripping his sketchbook.

Eponine heaved a very heavy sigh, standing as dramatically as one can. “You mean can I go home early and you find an excuse to leave these two idiots alone? Sounds perfect.” She spoke freely, as always. She stepped forward, placing a kiss on Grantaire’s cheek. Enjolras’ jaw visibly tightened, looking away from the show of affection. Eponine leaned in, whispering something he couldn’t hear into Grantaire’s ear.

_ “You aren’t obligated to tell him a thing.” _

Grantaire nodded distantly, swallowing thickly. Combeferre murmured something low into Enjolras’ ear, before turning to join Eponine, the two of them leaving the cafe together.

All that was left was tense silence, and Grantaire’s unsteady breathing. Enjolras paused for a few moments before speaking up. 

“Why are you upset?” 

“I’m not.” R said immediately, breathing through his nose.

“That’s bullshit, Grantaire.” Enjolras said, almost gently. “Why are you upset? All I meant to say was that you’re really talented… You should go to school for it.”

“I did.” R said quietly, lips pulling tight and eyes still refusing to meet Enjolras’ gaze. “I did go to school.” He said quietly, pushing the rapidly cooling drink into the other man’s hand.

“You- what?” Enjolras asked, voice soft and disbelieving.

“I went to school. I fucked it up.” Grantaire said, voice rough and head swimming in doubt. He hadn’t spoken of it in months, and he really didn’t want to say it now.

Enjolras waited, hoping for him to go on.

“I thought that moving out of my god damned house would be freeing, or something.”  _ Shut up, shut up, shut up-  _ “But instead I got stuck with student debt and no one to tell me to eat or sleep.” Grantaire gulped, his brain screaming at him to  _ shut the fuck up.  _ _ “A mental disorder characterized by a pervasive and persistent low mood that is accompanied by low self-esteem and by a loss of interest or pleasure in normally enjoyable activities.” _ Grantaire recited, jaw tight. “Major depressive disorder.” 

Enjolras said nothing, eyes wide and mouth curled into a tight frown. He listened intently, committing it all to memory.

“I stopped painting, I stopped going to classes, I stopped eating.” He paused for a moment, before continuing, even quieter than before. “I started drinking.” Grantaire shrugged, shoulders falling heavily. He stared at the hand resting on his sketchbook, lips twisted into a self deprecating mockery of a smile. “If Eponine and Joly hadn’t stepped in I don’t know if I’d-” He cut himself off, mouth snapping closed.

  
For once in his twenty two years, Enjolras was rendered speechless. He looked at the man in front of him- really looked at him. He saw the frailty to his limbs, the darkness under his endearing eyes and the way he never held himself upright. Enjolras remembered the way Grantaire spoke of his own art, and something in him hurt. He was used to sympathy- it was a common thing in his line of work. This was something new- something different. Enjolras’ chest hurt and he opened his mouth, unable to find the words to comfort Grantaire.

Instead, he reached out his hand, covering Grantaire’s over the sketchbook. For the first time that night, Grantaire looked up, meeting Enjolras’ eyes. He looked even more upset than R felt.

Grantaire felt Enjolras intertwine their fingers. His heart leapt into his throat as he glanced down at their joined hands before bouncing back up. The air was thick with the quiet of the cafe, the soft music suiting the moment a little too well. Grantaire wanted to say something- anything. He opened his mouth to say something, but the only thing that came out was a small hitch in his breath.

Absentmindedly, Enjolras swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, his body gravitating towards Grantaire’s. There was a counter between them, but at that moment, R really didn’t give a shit.

His knees almost buckled when Enjolras’ thumb began to rub soft circles into his hand, and R’s mouth lilted into a small smile, a genuine one. Grantaire tried to convince himself to calm down, that it won’t matter, not to get his _ god damned hopes up.  _ But that’s what Enjolras was good at.

Enjolras was good at making people believe in things. In that moment, Grantaire thought he might be convinced. He gulped, heart thumping loudly in his chest. Enjolras licked his lip again, eyes darting down to look at R’s.

And then the bell to the cafe rang, and Grantaire’s hand was very quickly empty- clutching at nothing.

“Enjolras!” Marius said, a bright smile covering his face. “And R! What a surprise.” He added, eyebrows shooting upwards. “Well, I’m glad I stopped in before you two ripped each other into pieces.” Marius,  _ bless him _ , laughed. 

Enjolras could do nothing but glare, and Grantaire could do nothing but stare at the empty space where Enjolras’ fingers were. Marius could do nothing but be Marius.

“I was just leaving.” Enjolras spoke suddenly, cheeks reddening. He avoided Grantaire’s gaze, which focused on him suddenly, eyes wide. 

“Oh.” R breathed, face falling. “Okay.”

“Oh! Well I was heading in your direction anyway! Let me walk you home, Enjolras.” Marius said happily, always one to be helpful.

Enjolras pointedly didn’t respond, instead turning back to Grantaire. “I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow?” It was a question, one full of expectancy and something else R didn’t want to place.  _ Hope  _ was what his mind supplied.

Grantaire nodded in response, eyes falling away from Enjolras’. He seemed to deflate, and Enjolras didn’t know how to fix it. 

“Grantaire, would you mind making me a cup of green tea? No coffee for me, I have to sleep tonight. Cosette would kill me if I missed brunch tomorrow.” Grantaire made it as quickly as he could, pointedly not acknowledging Enjolras’ presence. His hands trembled a bit as he went about heating the water and he didn’t bother to wait for it to steep, handing the cup to Marius and accepting the payment as quickly as possible.

Marius turned to sweep out the door, chattering away at the two men who were very obviously not listening. Enjolras paused at the door, looking over his shoulder at Grantaire’s slumped figure. 

_ “I’m sorry.”  _

It was so soft, Grantaire didn’t know if he had imagined it. And before he could ask Enjolras to speak up, he was left alone in the quiet of the Corinthe, the soft lights feeling out of place in his thoughts.

His hand opened and closed, the ghost of Enjolras’ palm settling like a phantom limb against his own; refusing to subside.

 

* * *

Grantaire didn’t sleep when he got home that morning, as he should’ve. The lighting in his apartment was too pleasant, the east-facing window filled with the soft glow of the dawning sun. He dragged his easel to the window, and began to paint. It was a few hours until he was frustrated enough to fetch the bottle of whiskey above the fridge, but he gave in, and gave in heavily.

Between the soft light of the apartment, the comforting numbness of the alcohol’s effects and the repetitive, familiar movements of the brush on the canvas, he lost the day. He was exhausted, of course, but his mind wouldn’t rest. 

He went through bouts of anger, followed by the dull sadness that the bottle brought. The anger was aimed at himself; at his apartment, at his shitty artistry, at the ghost of Enjolras’ hand he could still feel between his paint-covered fingers. The sadness was a dull comfort- something that he relished.

Frédéric Chopin, one of Jehan’s favorite composers, once said:  _ ‘I wish I could throw off the thoughts which poison my happiness. And yet I take a kind of pleasure in indulging them.’  _ Such was Grantaire’s melancholy. It was a place he found familiar, and it filled his mind and his heart- indulging in the pensive sadness that clouded his judgement. 

His phone was left forgotten in the heap of clothes he discarded hours before, and in the haze of his melancholia, he paid no attention to the soft buzzing. Eventually, it stopped altogether as the battery of the phone dissipated. 

All he could see was the canvas in front of him- the cyan eyes that stared back at him were not angry; they looked back at him with a softness; a kind and gentle calm- he felt mocked. Grantaire hated it- begged his hands to paint them differently. He smoked through a pack of cigarettes, willing his shaking hands to paint those beautiful eyes with the same anger they held before.

The eyes remained kind, and Grantaire remained lost in the world he’d built, lost to the colors and completely unaware of the passing time.

 

* * *

Enjolras wasn’t nervous. He didn’t know how to  _ be _ nervous. Most people, when struck with the onset of adrenaline and general unease tended to cave and become a mess of anxiety. Enjolras, on the other hand, used it to fuel his thoughts. Every rush of adrenaline was a burst of energy in a speech; every time butterflies appeared, he focused it into the emotion he needed to help the recipients of a speech sympathise with a cause.

Why his voice trembled slightly, and palms were damp with sweat, he really did not know. Well- objectively, he  _ knew _ . Enjolras really just did not want to admit it.

He was at the meeting seven minutes early, greeting the rest of Les Amis as they trickled in, absorbed in their own conversations. Combeferre made several attempts at discussion, but Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to focus on anything but the opening and closing of the door. He found himself watching the wood, as if willing Grantaire to appear there. If anyone were to make a person appear out of thin air by sheer will, it was Enjolras. But if anyone were to not appear by force of belief, it was Grantaire. Unstoppable force versus an immovable object, and all that.

Grantaire was all he could fucking think about; it was driving him to wit’s end. He couldn’t focus on essays- every counter argument he could procure was spoken in Grantaire’s rough, low voice. He thought about the dark stubble along his jawline, of the hard line of his body and how it would feel pressed against his own.

Enjolras was never very good with people. He knew, objectively, that people stared at him for a reason. Courfeyrac liked to remind him of that often, and it made him quite uncomfortable. Over the years, Enjolras had grown weary of eyes on him, though when he founded Les Amis de L’ABC, he had begun to use it to his advantage. 

It was easy to understand why people watched him while he spoke. He knew of his magnetism during speeches, during rallies. But it was the way people watched him while he was quiet that bothered him the most. He had nothing important to say, people were just looking at him because he was aesthetically pleasing. It made Enjolras squirm under their gaze, and he rarely held back comments about objectification if the scrutiny ever became verbal.

The first time that an unbridled stare was welcome was because Enjolras was returning it. He had spotted Grantaire from across the cafe, and felt something curl low in his stomach, felt his feet walk towards the counter, not wanting to be distanced from a man that beautiful. Enjolras had never been one for purely physical attraction- always schooled his thoughts away from it. People were complex and wonderful beings, they weren’t pieces of meat to be ogled at. Of course, he knew objectively when he saw a beautiful person. He knew that most of his friends were very attractive, and could appreciate beauty. But never had he given in to something so close to lust as a driving factor to approach someone. Not until Grantaire- with all of his tattoos and the messy curls and scruff and- _ fuck.  _

Combeferre laid a hand on his shoulder, eyebrows raised. The movement pulled Enjolras back into the moment, and he quickly realized everyone was watching him watch the door. He glanced at the watch on his wrist before standing, mouth twisting into a small frown. 

“We’re missing Feuilly and Grantaire.” He said curtly, scanning over his friends’ faces for any signs of acknowledgement.

“Feuilly had a second shift tonight.” Bahorel spoke up. “Haven’t heard from R today, though.”

“Neither have I.” Joly added, his lips pursing. “Though that’s not out of the ordinary.” He added softly, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself that it was alright. 

Enjolras sighed. “Wouldn’t be the first time he’s late- and I’m assuming it won’t be the last.” He muttered. “Well, the show must go on.” He said firmly, anger rising in his chest. He hated when people were late- hated the idea of schedules being more of a question than a definitive answer. Enjolras hated uncertainty- and that was all that Grantaire had given him. 

“Now, the rally is two weeks from tomorrow.” Enjolras said, bringing everyone’s attention to him, captivating the room with only one sentence. “We’ve been preparing for this for a long while, and there’s only a few loose ends to tie before we’re completely ready.” He continued on, his anger and annoyance rising with every minute that Grantaire was not present. By the end of his part of the meeting, his voice had risen to a steady thrum, only having to reference his notes every few minutes. Every time he heard something outside, or voices approaching the Musain, his head flicked to the right, attempting to prepare for the door opening. It never did.

“I think we can really shake things up next month, maybe bring every patron there to realize something they hadn’t previously. Though the individual achievements are important, we have to remember our overall goal of societal enlightenment.” He finished off, lips curling into a confident smile. He had come up with that line a few days beforehand, and scribbled it down hastily. He had been hoping to see Grantaire’s reaction to it, but that was hopeless apparently. Enjolras didn’t even know why the hell he expected him to show up.

“If anyone else has anything to mention, please do so now. After we get to everyone who wishes to speak, we can be finished for the night.” He added, taking a seat as he motioned for Courfeyrac at his right to start. Only a few of them spoke, asking basic questions about attire, shift schedules for the rally, et cetera. 

After the meeting officially adjourned, Enjolras watched his friends for a moment. He didn’t miss the way Joly went to sit with Bahorel. They spoke in low tones, both pulling out their phones and shaking their heads. 

The anger in his chest slowly loosened, revealing something he was only briefly familiar with. It was a feeling he experienced only in certain situations- usually involving scheduling, exams, and the wellbeing of his friends. It was worry. He was worried.

“Joly, Bahorel, can I speak to you both outside for a moment?” Enjolras spoke, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. Bahorel looked up at him with a scowl, and Joly’s eyes were full of a panic that Enjolras had seen quite a few times in the young man’s eyes. He could now guess where it stemmed from.

Enjolras stood, leading the two outside.

“I swear to the gods, Enjolras, if you try to lecture us about-”   


“I’m not here to lecture.” Enjolras responded curtly to Bahorel, silencing him. “Where is Grantaire?” 

Joly remained silent, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

“I don’t know. He didn’t show up to the gym, which is fine. It happens pretty often.” Bahorel shrugged. “He hasn’t picked up the phone today, but sometimes he likes to be by himself for days at a time.”

Enjolras nodded, mouth pulled into a scowl. “Joly?”

“I don’t know.” He admitted, voice coming out hushed. “I wouldn’t normally be so worried, but he felt so bad about missing the meeting last time, I’m  _ sure _ he wouldn’t purposefully skip it this time.” The words began tumbling from his mouth, eyebrows pulled together worriedly. “He hasn’t picked up his phone- which I agree with Bahorel, isn’t unusual. But I texted Eponine, and even she hasn’t heard from him. And that  _ is _ unusual.” Joly confided, growing more tense by the second. “I’m going to go see him as soon as we’re free to leave.”

“That won’t be necessary. Where does he live?”

 

* * *

It was a few minutes before Grantaire registered that the harsh banging sound wasn’t coming from his own mind, but from the door to his apartment. It snapped him out of his reverie, his shaky limbs moving to stand.  _ ‘Probably Joly.’  _ He thought absently, not moving to put any more clothes on. He wore only a pair of thin boxers, covered in paint, matching the streaks of paint on his skin. Joly had made him switch to water-based paints last year.  _ “If you’re going to get more paint on yourself than the canvas, then it’s going to be paint that won’t poison your bloodstream!”  _

He distantly walked to the door, trembling legs carrying him precariously.

Grantaire reached forward, pulling the door open.

“You’re not Joly.” He said softly, eyes growing wide. R was dragged down to earth at one look at Enjolras, his heart slamming against his ribs as he crossed his arms, hoping to hide some of his body. Enjolras looked as stunning as ever, a slight flush on his cheeks and a few curls in disarray from the walk over. Grantaire wanted to touch him. “Apollo.”

“Where were you?” Enjolras blurted, his lips tightening as he waited for an answer.

“What are you talking about?” Grantaire asked, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “Wait- what time is it?” He asked, fear dawning on him. R turned around, moving towards the kitchen. He left the door open behind him, an invitation for Enjolras to enter. Enjolras followed him.

Grantaire had a very small apartment- just one room, with a small bedroom and a very small bathroom off to the right. It was messy, the living room littered with bottles and paint and paper. A person’s living space told a lot about them- how they live. Grantaire’s apartment was cluttered with art supplies, various pencils and paints and even some paper cranes scattered across the living room. The windows were all covered with various tapestries, all but one. An easel sat in front of it, streaks of blue covering the area around it. Enjolras was tempted to look at what was painted, but there were better things to worry about right now.

“Shit, it’s past nine…” Grantaire trailed off, staring at the time on the microwave. “I missed the meeting.” He breathed, eyes closing as he fought off the wave at anger aimed at himself. Enjolras was standing in his apartment. Apollo incarnate has descended into his shitty fucking apartment and is pissed at him.  _ Well, shit. _

“Yes, you did.” Enjolras finally spoke, cheeks flushed brighter as his eyes raked over Grantaire’s exposed form. His jaw tightened as he watched the muscles in R’s arms work, the soft curve of his ass prominent, only the thin material of the boxers covering it. Enjolras trailed his eyes up Grantaire’s body, taking note of every stripe of paint, mostly blue but there was red and beige scattered across his arms and torso. There was a streak of green across Grantaire’s collarbone. Enjolras wanted to bite it off. 

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire said hoarsely. “I lost track of time…” He trailed off, moving to get himself some water. Apollo was standing in his fucking apartment, and he was too numbed by alcohol and frustrated at himself to fully take that it. He filled a glass, his hand shaking. He drank it, already feeling a little less like falling over.

Grantaire looked down. “Oh- fuck.” He muttered, quickly moving past Enjolras to the bedroom. He slipped on a shirt over his bare chest and Enjolras was sad to see the skin covered.

“Do you lose track of time often?” Enjolras hated how worry transferred to what sounded like anger in his voice. “You left our friends worried.” 

Grantaire reappeared, standing in front of Enjolras. They stood in the hallway between the kitchen and the bedroom, and R felt briefly trapped between the close walls and Enjolras’ large frame in the walkway. He shivered. “Joly should know better than to be worried. I just lost track of time, I told you.” He shrugged, not meeting Enjolras’ eyes. 

“I was worried.” 

Grantaire’s eyes darted up, mouth drying. “You don’t have to worry about me, Apollo.” He said after a moment, voice betraying his surprise with a distinct waver.

“I didn’t think I did.” Enjolras started. “I didn’t think I  _ would _ worry about you.” He said honestly, wincing at how it came out. “Wait no-” He huffed a small laugh. “Apparently you’re the only person who can make it impossible for me to  _ talk _ .”

Grantaire looked at him for a long moment, eyebrows pulling together. “Okay…”

“No- I-” Enjolras sighed. “I talk. It’s what I do. I write speeches, I speak to crowds. I’m an orator. But the minute I stand in front of you, I can’t get a word out without sounding like a complete jackass. And it’s absolutely  _ maddening _ , Grantaire. It drives me insane!” He was ranting now, on a roll. Grantaire just looked at him, his pink lips parted slightly as he watched Enjolras stalk closer, backing Grantaire against the wall.

“You drive me absolutely insane, you know. I don’t know  _ how _ \- I don’t know  _ why _ . And I hate not knowing. I’ve never met someone as absolutely fucking complicated as you. I’ve never met anyone I can’t pick apart and understand and predict in a matter of hours.” He stepped closer to Grantaire, voice tense and sounding angry. “I can’t figure you out. I don’t know how. It makes me so mad that I have _ no idea  _ what you’re thinking.  _ You drive me mad!” _ Enjolras exclaimed, before reaching forward. 

His hand threaded into Grantaire’s curls-  _ he’d always wanted to do that-  _ and pressed forward, pinning Grantaire to the wall behind him. Enjolras pressed their hips together, before slotting their mouths against each other in a similar fashion.

_ Oh fuck. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')
> 
> if u caught the accidental low-key Hamilton quote, I applaud you. I can no longer read it without saying it in AHam and Washington's voices.
> 
> also that Chopin quote is so close to my heart and i saw the opportunity to use it and was like !!! ha!! i can use my fave composer :')
> 
> i hope u guys liked that? let me know what u guys think.
> 
> come scream at me vivalar.tumblr.com


	6. I'll Kiss You Again, Between The Bars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want to leave this.” He whispered, reaching a shaky hand to touch Grantaire’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, there has been a slew of extraneous reasons that I won't detail.
> 
> A huge, giant thank you to Amelia for not only basically writing 60% of the first part, but for the endless encouragement when I feel like my writing isn't worth continuing. You are wonderful to me and I am so thankful for you.
> 
> The first section is explicit, so if you are not interested in reading, then you can skip to the first break.
> 
> I have a very important author's note at the end of this; please stick around and read.

Kissing is a concept that is different for every person. Grantaire had kissed many people. He had kissed his mother, kissed Eponine, even Bahorel that one time. He’d kissed countless partners — none of them staying long enough for a second. It was either a brief moment full of love, or a drawn out experience of lust; but never a combination of the two.

Here, in his apartment, it was the most  _ exquisite _ integration of love and lust tangling over and around one another; of hands on hips and fingers in hair and lips and tongue and teeth: that push and pull of muscle and bone, the intensity of their attraction coming to a startling crash of something  _ new _ .

Enjolras had him firmly pressed against the wall; head knocking back against the drywall, pleasantly painful. He felt nothing but the hard line of Enjolras’ body pressed against his own, their hips rocking together as they almost devoured each other with those slow, deliberate movements of their mouths. There was a kiss, and a huff of air as they broke apart to exchange almost-embarrassed smiles; another kiss, another huff of air, another smile. Grantaire’s nose was pressed into the soft skin of Enjolras’ cheek, and Enjolras’ hand kept flitting between R’s neck and hips, unsure where to go. The whisper of his fingers against the hem of his shirt was a filthy promise; the scrape of the heel of his hand an almost-oath, sworn through minimal touch. It was all an awkward fumble, as a first kiss and touch was, and is, always meant to be. 

The broke apart, no more than a few centimeters, both struggling to catch their twin breaths. Grantaire was hard, almost  _ painfully _ so; the reality of having his Apollo between his legs a breath-taking and arousing reality. Enjolras’ erection was straining against the zipper of his jeans as they rubbed and pressed with delightful friction. Through the worn fabric of his boxers, Grantaire could feel the heat of Enjolras’ own cock pressing against his ,  a painful pleasure; one that made him bite back a hoarse shout when Enjolras pressed against him a little  _ too _ hard ;  large hands moving over his lower back as they made their way towards the curve of his ass, and then nothing really mattered anymore. Nothing, save for those soft moans that Enjolras was emitting; moans that Grantaire was absorbing with every gentle press and touch of his tongue against Enjolras’ mouth.

“ _ May I _ ?” Enjolras was breathing heavily into that space between them, pressing their foreheads together and,  _ Christ _ , Grantaire could practically  _ taste _ the sheer  _ want _ in that debonair voice. It took a moment for his lethargic thoughts to catch up; stuck on the sound of the breathy question like the needle on a record player, but he saw that Enjolras was looking at him in distress, hand hovering over the waistband of his boxers where the head of Grantaire’s cock poking out of the opening in the front, and he shivered slightly, and nodded.

“Yes.” Of course. Because Enjolras was  _ here _ , standing between his legs. Enjolras was  _ here _ , kissing  _ him _ . Enjolras was  _ here _ , hand on Grantaire’s not inconsiderable erection and stroking the damp tip, the soft pads of his large hands circling it so carefully. Enjolras was  _ here _ , was asking for his  _ consent _ . Was there anything hotter than someone asking the other for their  _ consent? _ In a breathy voice with almost  _ sinfully _ reddened lips and mussed blond hair and  _ oh  _ Christ _ was that  _ really _ his voice? Did he  _ really _ sound like that? Was he really _ — oh,  _ God _ . 

Grantaire let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine as he watched Enjolras go to his knees; thin fingers dragging down Grantaire’s torso and hooking into the waistband of Grantaire’s boxers to drag them down as his knees made contact with the worn carpet. Enjolras whimpered, seemingly in response; a small roll of sound as Grantaire’s flushed cock rose up against his torso, several droplets escaping from the tip as they both watched on, almost hungrily. Perhaps his sluggish brain wasn’t completely and utterly overwhelmed by the dual pleasures of Enjolras kneeling at his feet and the sight of those big hands bracketing his thighs, because Grantaire felt his cheeks flush in a way only attributable to embarrassment, rather than arousal, and he stuttered out a small apology. 

Or  _ would _ have, had Enjolras’  _ sinful  _ fucking _ mouth _ not chosen to settle around his cock at the exact moment his lips parted, and Grantaire didn’t know if he could think or breathe or even  _ see _ ; stars exploding in his eyes as he clenched them shut, and pressed his head back against the wall in almost agonised despair; unable to handle the sight that was bent over before him.

“Oh my  _ g _ _ — _ ” Grantaire choked out, hand moving to curl into Enjolras’ hair, “ _ — _ this is going to happen embarrassingly _ — _ ”

And then Enjolras was  _ humming _ . On his  _ dick _ . A low rumble of sound emitting from his chest, an almost growl as he pressed his tongue to the underside; the smallest scrape of bottom teeth on superheated and sensitive skin, and they both shuddered. 

“Oh _ — _ ” Grantaire’s breath caught violently in his chest, and he was  _ coming _ . Enjolras swallowed every bit of it, taking his time as Grantaire rode out the orgasm. Grantaire’s knees buckled after a moment, and Enjolras pulled himself off of Grantaire, letting him sit. 

“Was that okay?” Enjolras asked, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed over.   
“Was that _—_ _Jesus_ _—_ ” Grantaire choked out, chest heaving. “But I want to-” He said, reaching forward to paw at the bulge in Enjolras’ jeans. Enjolras hissed between his teeth and jumped back.

“I already,  _ um _ _ — _ ” If it was possible for Enjolras’ face to flush even further, it did, “Earlier. Against the.  _ Uh _ . The wall.”

Grantaire’s mind went blank. “Oh. Good.” He said, simply, and a crooked smile spreading across his lips.

They had a moment of silence, their legs tangled up; Grantaire resting against the wall, and Enjolras leaning forward, head pillowed on Grantaire’s knees. Nothing could be heard but their harsh breathing, and the sounds of traffic coming from outside the small apartment.

“Please don’t make me go home.” A soft plea, almost a pitiful beg, was the first thing that broke the silence; a soft appeal that came from Enjolras’ swollen lips. “I don’t want to leave this.” He whispered, reaching a shaky hand to touch Grantaire’s face. R could do nothing but nod, moving to stand. He pulled up Enjolras as well, taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom on trembling legs.

It was the first solid night of sleep that Grantaire had gotten in months.

* * *

Grantaire was woken the next morning by the soft graze of warm fingers across his bare arm and chest. He was warm, comfortable, and he felt  _ safe.  _ His eyes slid open, lids sticking together with sleep. Grantaire’s mouth curled into a sleepy smile; the first thing he saw when his eyes focused were bright eyes watching him.

“ _ Good morning _ .” Enjolras softly murmured, his fingers raising to softly brush the stubble along Grantaire’s jaw. 

“What time is it?” Grantaire responded, his voice cracking. He couldn’t help but smile at the soft movements against his skin, and he turned his head to the side to press a gentle kiss onto Enjolras’ palm. The smile he was awarded made Grantaire feel like floating.

“Approximately seven, I believe.” 

“Seven? Like- in the morning?”

“I did say ‘good morning’, so yes.”

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras. It’s so  _ early _ .” Grantaire groaned, popping his neck loudly, creating a small wince from Enjolras in response.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Enjolras spoke quietly, pulling his hand away. Grantaire caught it, threading their fingers together. His hands were startlingly small and pale in comparison, Enjolras’ hand covering his almost completely. It made him feel safe.

“Grantaire? Are you alright?” Enjolras asked gently, his hands giving a slight squeeze.

“Better than ever.” Grantaire responded quickly, leaning up to press his lips hesitantly against Enjolras’. It was still awkward and unsure, a moment of doubt crept into his head; his face was flushed red as he pulled back. He thought back to the heat of the previous night, his cheeks further brightening. “Was last night okay?” He asked carefully, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. 

“Do you remember when we met?” Enjolras asked, in lieu of an answer. 

“You mean the day an actual god stepped into my dinky ass cafe? How could I forget?” Grantaire teased, his hand stroking Enjolras’ palm with great care.

“I couldn’t forget, either. And last night was wonderful, Grantaire.” Enjolras paused, looking nervous, which wasn’t a sight often seen. “I’m not a god, though, you know. I’m not this Apollo to be put on a pedestal, R. I don’t want you to think of me like that.” 

Grantaire knew that wouldn’t be easy- knew it would take time before he saw Enjolras as anything but an unattainable; something he could only distantly imagine as being his own. But, he also knew that if anyone could make R believe something, believe _ in  _ something, it was Enjolras. 

He nodded, his lips curling into a tight, remorseful grimace of a smile. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, please don’t apologize to me.” Enjolras let a soft smile take over his lips, bringing their joined hands up to place a gentle kiss upon them. It was a compassionate moment, full of adoration and tenderness. “But I _ will _ go make us coffee. Is that alright?”

“You don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to.” Grantaire choked out, avoiding Enjolras’ gaze. R hadn’t expected him to stay the morning; had expected to wake up to an empty bed and only a rumpled mattress as evidence of the previous night's escapades. But no, he was given this gift of a comforting, albeit awkward morning interaction. “I mean- you can. But it’s alright if you don’t want to stay.”

“I do- want to, that is.” Enjolras responded, his surety never failing and his gaze never faltering.

“Coffee it is, then.” Grantaire said softly, the flutter curling low in his stomach strengthening to a thrum that stretched warmth in his chest. 

Enjolras leaned forward, catching R’s lips in a kiss; morning-breath be damned. It was a slow burning of heat, something curling low in Grantaire’s stomach, his breath audibly catching in his throat. Enjolras kissed him carefully, trying to convey exactly how much he wanted to stay. They kissed lazily, their tongues sliding against each other in languid movements, Enjolras’ hand curling into Grantaire’s curls. It was a slow heat, a soft burning of pleasure and adoration. Grantaire felt drunk with it, all thoughts escaping his mind, save for the ones focused on the way Enjolras’ soft lips caressed his own. 

They pulled away after a moment, resting their foreheads together. They were both aroused- though not urgently. The morning was too sweet to push further; felt too much like something to covet and treasure. Neither of them had ever experienced anything like it- and both were scared to shatter the careful world they had built here in this apartment. They both were aware that they could dissolve into discourse in a matter of moments, but they were both aware of this not being the time or place. 

“Coffee.” Enjolras breathed, his voice coming back to him as he watched Grantaire’s eyes droop sleepily. R couldn’t help it- he was so relaxed and content.  _ Safe.  _ “You need coffee.”

“Coffee.” Grantaire agreed, sitting up. His shirt had been removed before bed, and the thin sheet on his mattress fell around his hips, allowing him to take note of the dried paint sticking to him. “And a shower. Do you mind if I shower?” He winced, turning to look back at Enjolras. It was quite the sight, looking at him curled against Grantaire’s pillows, in his bed, his soft halo of curls falling around his face so delicately. Once more, R felt the desperate demand to paint the image, to take a picture or sculpt; anything to capture that moment. He committed it to memory, taking in the way the soft morning light fell into the room, through Enjolras’ golden curls and against the perfect lines of his face. 

“No, I don’t mind if you sh- why are you staring at me?” Enjolras asked, his cheeks flushed pink as he returned Grantaire’s watchful gaze, which quickly snapped away.

“I wasn’t.” 

“You most definitely were.”

“That’s a double positive, Enjolras.”   
“Honestly, don’t deflect by picking apart my grammar.” 

They were grinning stupidly, Grantaire sitting and facing Enjolras, his hand curled around the blond’s ankle. He hadn’t felt this light in years. 

“No, but I will deflect by taking a shower. And I think someone said something about coffee?” He asked, standing reluctantly from his place on the bed. Grantaire grabbed a mostly dry, mostly clean towel, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Coffee, it is.” Enjolras agreed, smile spreading.

 

* * *

Upon his exit from the shower, the hot water having done nothing to calm his nerves, he was struck with fear. Grantaire stood in front of the door of the bathroom, staring at the handle. He tried to prepare himself for the possibility that he could be stepping into an empty apartment. He hadn’t expected Enjolras to stay for so long, anyway. It was more than enough that he stayed till morning. 

With a towel slung low around his hips, and his hair wet and dripping, he opened the door to the shower. He thought he heard the coffeemaker whirring, it was horridly old, and put out coffee that seemed no matter how much water you added, was always much too strong. But caffeine was caffeine, and Grantaire hadn’t had the funds to buy a new one.

He dressed as quickly as he could, pulling on the least paint-covered clothes he could find, and tried to dampen his nerves as he exited the bedroom.

Grantaire’s fears were as unnecessary as they were unfounded. Enjolras stood in his living room, hands cupping a mug of coffee. 

“Why do they look so different?” Enjolras asked very suddenly, and R realized he was looking at his artwork. Grantaire flushed red, his palms growing sweaty. All he had on his easel and in the surrounding areas were the paintings of Enjolras’ eyes.  “This one looks so… soft.” He gestured to one on the easel, and then to one propped against the futon. “This one is so… harsh. I’m not an artist and I don’t really understand much art by any means, but even I can see a difference. The eyes- my eyes, I suppose- they look mean.” Enjolras looked at Grantaire in open honesty, standing there in the clothes he had worn the previous day, barefoot with a bedhead to rival even Marius’. Grantaire, oddly enough, felt guilty.

“That was after the meeting.” He points to the cruel looking one against the couch. “That one was after you came to see me at the Corinthe the first time.” The one he pointed to this time was vicious; harsh in a way the first was not. “And those are after the second time you came. When Marius interrupted.” He gestured to the ones scattered on the floor, and resting on the easel.

“I really am sorry, you know.”

“I know.” And he did, he understood now. Enjolras was apologizing for everything he said- everything he did. It didn’t stop the memory from being any less biting, but at least he knew now. The soft words Enjolras had gifted him with in the last ten hours did a fine job at beginning the long process of easing Grantaire’s doubts.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras had gone home soon after, leaving a litany of promises in his wake. He promised Grantaire that they would meet at the Corinthe at noon. 

_ “A date?” _

_ “A date.” _

Enjolras had promised that he was only leaving because Combeferre was going to murder him for not checking in, and because really, he must brush his teeth.

_ “No, I’m not using your toothbrush, Grantaire. That’s gross.” _

_ “Ah yes, but dick sucking is a whole other story, is it?” _

_ “That’s crude! And I resent that sentiment.” _

Enjolras had promised to come back later that night, too. He promised this between a hurried and passionate flood of kisses against the door.

_ “Can I come back?”  _

_ “Always.” _

 

* * *

Grantaire, afraid to be late or absent to another of their meetings, showed up an hour before noon, with nothing to do but sketch, drink coffee and deflect Courfeyrac’s queries.

“Enjolras looked quite chipper this morning. He also seemed to have forgotten to change clothes from yesterday. And come home before morning.” Courfeyrac said, sliding into the seat next to Grantaire. “And judging by the way Eponine was alone this morning when I relieved her shift, I’d say you didn’t show up to work last night.”

R said nothing, sipping at his coffee, and continuing to sketch. He made a mental note to call Eponine later and explain; surely she’d understand.

“I’m not telling you anything, Courf. You’d have more success getting it from Enjolras.”

“Oooh, or maybe Combeferre knows.” Courfeyrac’s cheshire grin flashed, before he pulled out his phone and went back to the coffee counter, talking loudly to his boyfriend. Grantaire smiled softly. He liked Combeferre, and liked seeing the way just a phone conversation could make him light up like a christmas tree-  _ oh god, Christmas. _

It was the day before Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve eve. Grantaire had done such a spectacular job at ignoring any and all decorations and avoiding calendars that he hadn’t noticed. It was something Grantaire had never enjoyed- a holiday both him and Eponine took to lock themselves into her apartment and drink. They didn’t celebrate Christmas. It reminded them both of happier times, of the days of family. It reminded Eponine of her family, as big and boisterous as it used to be. Of the days when her and Gavroche and Azelma had been taken care of, for the most part. Now she acted as a mother, her parents having put all three of them in the foster system just before Eponine was eighteen.

For Grantaire, Christmas brought memories of strained silences, the clinking of bottles and the terse sound of his parents arguing behind closed doors, their voices drifting to where he sat in his small bedroom; listening to the loud slur of his father’s voice and the quiet, biting words of his mother. 

Since last Christmas, he and Eponine had found themselves with many new friends. She had Cosette and Musichetta and Jehan, and he had Bahorel, Courfeyrac and Joly and now, Enjolras. They still held each other closest, though. But he wondered if their plans would change at all, maybe expand to include other people. It wasn’t an unwelcome thought.

In his solemn reverie, he hadn’t noticed Enjolras rushing through the doors to the Corinthe, and was startled when he approached.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to be late.” He was out of breath, his curls falling out of a ponytail and cheeks flushed with a combination of exertion and the cold air as he fell to sit in the seat across Grantaire. “But I’m here- like I promised.” 

“You’re here.” Grantaire repeated, a small smile falling over his lips as Enjolras hesitantly reached to take his hand over the table.

“Is this okay- in public?” Enjolras asked carefully and quietly, his hands hovering just over the skin of Grantaire’s fingers. As a response, R turned his hand over, threading their fingers together. He was trying hard to ignore Courfeyrac’s sounds of surprise and delight, a too-loud  _ ‘Told you so.’  _  echoing into the phone still clutched to his ear and across the counter to where they were sitting.

“How are you?” Grantaire asked, his cheeks flushing at the soft ministrations Enjolras was forming, his thumb stroking the skin of Grantaire’s palm softly.

“Never better.” Enjolras said simply, quoting Grantaire’s words from earlier that morning. The simple response brought back a slew of memories, and R could feel the flutter of butterflies in his stomach. “And yourself?”

“I’m alright. I didn’t realize it was almost Christmas.” He admitted after seeing Enjolras’ eyebrows thread together worriedly. 

“Yes, tomorrow is Christmas Eve.” Enjolras responded, his head quirked to the side. He seemed to think about something for a long moment, lips pursing as he thought. “Can I talk to you about something?” 

What an awful question. _ Can I talk to you? _ ,  _ I need to talk to you, _ etc. These were all sentiments that sent a rush of fear through Grantaire’s chest, no matter who was prompting them. His mouth dried.

“Sure.”

“I really don’t mean to be terribly forward, but I worry about you, you know. The amount that Joly frets is enough to make anyone worry.”

Enjolras reached over the table with his other hand to brush a curl off of Grantaire’s forehead, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“I’m not going to tell you to change. I know that doesn’t work and I know it wreaks havoc on someone’s mental health. I would never tell you to change yourself.” He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “But I would like to help- be part of your support system. I know that Joly and Eponine and Bahorel will always be your first to call- and I’m thankful that they have been there for you. But I’d like to help when I can.”

“Thanks.” It was a flimsy response. Grantaire didn’t know if he was there yet- able to see himself running to Enjolras when he needed food or Eponine to hold him or Bahorel to take the aggression out on. But maybe eventually, he could. “To be honest, I don’t know if I can do that yet- be that open with you.” Grantaire said quietly, looking into his coffee. Enjolras brought their joined hands to his mouth, kissing Grantaire’s fingers softly.

“Grantaire, we have all the time in the world. If that’s what you want.”

That’s what Grantaire wanted.

* * *

The meeting started like any other, except Grantaire had been there an hour earlier, helping Enjolras get everything into the small meeting room. It was Christmas day. He was welcomed into Les Amis with open arms, of course, and after a long talk with Eponine, he had been the one to ask Enjolras about forming some sort of Christmas party. 

It was decided on being at the Musain, in the room they usually occupied. They would have their usual meeting, discuss the discourse of the city, and then dissolve into a Christmas party. Enjolras was happily surprised at the idea, rewarding it with a grand kiss that left Grantaire grinning for hours. 

Eponine and him had spoken, and they were both attending the party, and she was going home with him after. They would have a night to themselves, much to Enjolras’ discontent. But he understood, of course he did. Enjolras seemed to always understand.

Enjolras stood before all of them, Grantaire taking his seat between Bahorel and Bossuet, and began speaking. He was more enthralling, more captivating than the first time R had sat in that seat. Everyone was in good spirits, and Enjolras spoke wonderfully.

“Christmas is a commercialized holiday, yes, but it’s also when people in society are in the most giving mood. They want to help the world; better the lives of others. Yes, it’s unfortunate that this spirit is only lifted during the holidays, but we need to take advantage of it.” Grantaire huffed a small laugh under his breath. “Something funny, Grantaire?” Enjolras’ eyes flashed, but there was something new behind it; an expectancy, almost. 

“I just think it’s funny how…” Grantaire started, and their friends released small groans, Bahorel rolling his eyes fondly and even Combeferre allowed himself a small smile.

Their arguments were fond now; a challenge that teased at fun. They both usually had strong opposing arguments. Grantaire enjoyed the tension, and Enjolras enjoyed strengthening his arguments- as well as the tension, of course, which was usually relieved behind closed doors.

And when the party was nearing a close and everyone was happily buzzed, all mulling about to avoid leaving, it was time for him and Eponine to depart from the group. They had things to catch up on; traditions to fulfill, selves to pity. Before he could leave, Enjolras pulled him out of the back door of the Musain, the snow falling around them as he pressed a kiss against Grantaire’s mouth.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all day.” He said softly, resting their foreheads together. Enjolras’ hand caressed Grantaire’s jaw, his thumb brushing over the freshly-shaved skin there. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that all month.” Grantaire responded, pressing another soft kiss to Enjolras’ lips. They spent a moment there; pressing into kisses, only pulling back to smile. Eventually, they heard a burst of excited noise from inside, and Enjolras sighed as he pulled away. 

“Can I come see you in the morning? I’ll likely worry all night.” Enjolras admitted, pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s forehead.

“Come see me anytime you like.”

“See you soon then, love.”

“See you soon, mon ange.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned in a previous author's note that the cafe that the Corinthe is based off of is a cafe that is in Orlando, my hometown. It is with a very, very, very heavy heart that I write today. As both a member of the LGBTQ community, and as someone raised in Orlando, my heart is absolutely destroyed. I only moved away last month, and even so I am only two hours away; and I myself, as well as several of my friends have been to Pulse before. Myself rarely, and my friends many times. I have only recognized two names on that long list. My heart goes out to the victims' families. My heart goes out to all of the friends of victims. My heart goes out to all of the victims who have been outed like this; or who are perhaps not being remembered with their preferred names or pronouns. My heart goes out to every Muslim who is facing hate and blame for this. My heart goes out to every member of the LGBTQ community that is scared to exist right now; that is scared to be a person in the lbgt community in America. I am with you, I am afraid. I love you all.
> 
> I wrote this chapter, originally intending for there to be more angst; perhaps an argument. But my heart is much too heavy to try and write heavy things. So I made this ending as happy as it could be; as happy as I could write it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this fic, hopefully many of you will return for my next, whatever that may be.
> 
> My tumblr is vivalar <3 send me some prompts in the meantime until I get my next project started.
> 
> with love,  
> Hannah


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